The Killer's Reverie
by PHLover213
Summary: Erik Specteur is perfectly mad, don't you know? He is in love with Christine Daaé and he will do anything to make her his, even if it unleashes a violence in him he didn't know existed. COMPLETE AU modern day, R/C and E/C.
1. The Killer's Reverie

**Disclaimer: **I do not own, nor do I claim to own, The Phantom of the Opera. Granted, I love it to pieces, but it'll never be.

Enjoy.

xxxx

_The killer stalks in the night. To the only thing, the only _one_ that matters, he is nothing. He is an object of hatred and disdain – she loathes him wholeheartedly, and why? Doesn't she realise that all this anger, distance and antipathy is really for her? Everything he's ever done – though neither was aware earlier – has been for her. He has lived, he has been disfigured, he has been rejected by society and everyone he's ever grown close to, and all of it has been to bring him to her. They are bound unbreakably, inextricably linked. So why does she put up the fa__ç__ade of not loving him as truly as he loves her?_

_It's simple, if he thinks about it._

_The student. The one who, before, was topping the class. The student who knows the law and loves the law._

_How ironic it is, the killer thinks as he hides from the headlights of a car. He will have to defy every law there's ever been – literal and natural – to be with she who has his heart._

_Oh, cursed love! Shall you ever know the depth of his hatred for you? He'd kill _you_ if he could, but no, he cannot._

_He knows the law almost as deeply and completely as he knows music. With two passions in life, he is often in an extreme frame of mind. Perhaps, he thinks; that is what drove him to snap that first neck, to end that first life. He remembers the feel of his victim's pulse beneath his hand, the piteous screams that he'd so easily ignored. He remembers the delicious snap of the cervical vertebrae, ending the victim's life._

_He shivers in anticipation as he moves fluidly through the window._

_What a hypocrite, he thinks. He teaches the law to up-and-coming judges, lawyers and justices. And yet, almost every night, he defies those laws; he robs people of their right to live and he loves it with a burning passion._

_He loves it almost as much as he loves the sleeping figure before him. Tenderly stroking a tendril of hair away from her face, he kneels at her side. In sleep she is oblivious to him; she does not hate that which she cannot see. He sighs and she murmurs, adjusting her position. She will never know – she can't ever know._

_He hums a tune and a peaceful smile overspreads her angelic features. Does she realise how _painfully_ beautiful she is? He supposes she doesn't._

_Tentatively he pulls off his mask and wig. She makes no response. Of course she doesn't._

_He leans closer, still humming the song. He remembers it from long ago. A lullaby? Yes, one from the time before he was like this; before he was disfigured and rejected by everyone he came into contact with. He is livid with anger, but then she murmurs something again and her sweet voice relaxes him._

_For a brief moment, as he leans to kiss her forehead, he is not the killer. He is the lover, the aching soul that only wants acceptance. He knew it a long time ago, when he was just starting, when he was just allowing the thing in his soul – his _music_ – to take wing, like it ought to._

_But he was brushed with the blackness of death._

_Ever since he has been afraid to compose. He has been afraid to let his heart swell with the startling music he is capable of._

_The beauty that he knows _she_ deserves._

_He gasps as she tugs at the front of his shirt, yanking him onto the bed. Her arms are around him._

_Fuck._

_What is he going to do now? If he attempts to leave her embrace he risks waking her, yet if he waits until morning..._

_He can imagine her painful shriek. Not like one of death, more like one of tortured, awful horror. He can imagine the look on her face, the one of sheer terror and disgust. Especially because of her hatred for him._

_No, no, no! This is so wrong! Let go, he begs her silently, attempting to remove her from him, for the love of God, let go!_

_She can't see him like this._

_In desperation, he struggles, but she mumbles something and buries her face in his chest. He remembers this feeling from the time before. Is it – comfort? Acceptance?_

_Love?_

_He kisses her forehead tenderly._

_Yes, surely this must be love. She loves him, he thinks triumphantly. She loves him!... But she can't. She loves the student. Yes, he thinks, she told him and he heard. They didn't care; she said it right in front of the killer and that was when his hatred and jealousy began._

_And now he needs to kill someone. Carefully extricating himself from her grasp, he grabs his mask, slipping it back on, and heads for the window. He slips back to the bed to smooth out the covers and neaten her curly tresses then pulls on the dark wig, running a hand through the dark, matted and incredibly fake hair. He hates it as much as himself._

_That is the downside of it all. Every moment of every day he is wallowing in self-loathing. He takes people's lives and nothing equals the thrill and the rush of killing; he loves and he teaches and he plays his organ – but all of it means hate. All of it equals a big fat nothing at the end of the day. Or the night._

xxxx

_He presses the body against the wall. She is young. Such potential... he places a hand on her neck._

'_Do what you want but don't kill me!' she pleads. Oh, her screams fall on his ears like the most beautiful music. He closes his eyes and shudders. The victim swipes at his mask. Upon seeing his face, she retches then screams. He closes his hands over her windpipe and tightens his grip. 'Help! He-'_

_He snaps her neck._

_For a second his heart stops and the adrenalin pulses through him. He sees no point in useless slashing when he kills... but there is a degree of unfeeling coldness. He thinks of his victims like animals or numbers – to date he has killed fifty people._

_Fifty-one lies limply on the pavement; he pants as his heart continues to beat. Fifty-one is dead and the killer lives. He loathes her. She is wearing a low-cut shirt that shows off her surgically enhanced breasts. A tight leather skirt squeezes her large thighs together and straightened blonde hair is mussed with sweat and filth. Stiletto heels glint in the light of a nearby streetlight – they are gold. If he thinks honestly, she deserved to die. She was probably a whore. People these days can't be trusted to think about more than money, sex, and themselves._

_He hates everyone excepting his love. He wants her and needs her._

_But he'll never have her._

xxxx

**Oh, Erik, you poor soul.**

**Even though you're criminally insane and kind of creepy.**

**OK, so this is a oneshot that may be extended. If you guys like it.**

**So it's up to you. If you enjoyed my attempted insight at the killer's mind, and saw the different twist on things I was taking, or even if you like my writing, then please do tell me, and subscribe, and we'll have a merry old time together.**

**See you next time?**

**:)**


	2. A Budding Obsession

**Author's Note: Okay, so I **_**tried**_** an AU once. Twice. Forty gazillion times.**

**I'm trying **_**again **_**and this is chapter two to The Killer's Reverie. Christine's point of view at first. You may find the person and tense switch around quite a bit, but whatever suits the situation... Quick explanation:**

**Christine is with Raoul; Erik is a teacher. Funnily enough, the killer-psychopath hiding under a façade of mediocrity is in love with Christine. This is set in Australia, because I can speak with experience. Hopefully there aren't **_**many**_** things that are inexplicable to non-Aussies. We're normal. I think. But still confused, let me know and I'll explain.  
And we're back. **

**Oh, and by the way, I chose the name Specteur for Erik because a) it sounds like spectre and b) it's an exchange student from France at my school's name and I told him that I write stories. I decided to give him a present? :)**

**Disclaimer: ERIK, CHRISTINE AND RAOUL ARE MINE! TAKE THAT! MU-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAHA!  
Also, this chapter features made up drugs and it's a rather shameless reference to Repo! The Genetic Opera. I don't own that either. Also, it's just this chapter. XD No Zydrate ownership claimed.**

**P.S., Thank you all for the reviews. They made me happy. Air dollars for you all. But don't stop reviewing, eh?**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

It wasn't any special morning, really. I woke up, wishing to go back to sleep, and rose to shower. But at the mirror, I paused. My hair was neat and pushed away from my face. Usually it was in a huge mess around my head like brown barbed wire. I showered and brushed it, dressing quickly.

I was a musical theatre student at the Victorian College of the Arts. I wanted to be a performer more than anything. My father, Gustav, encouraged it. He was a cellist and composer and his dream was that one day I'd sing in one of his works. I was a soprano, albeit a not perfect one. I loved classical music. I thought that perhaps one day I would sing on a stage where I was the only performer, and triumph in front of the world . . .

Till then I was just Christine Daaé.

Walking out the front door, I gave a sigh. I supposed I was lucky as life went. I had my own house. I had amazing friends and I was on my way to being a famous performer. Of course, I didn't know that I was close to collapse. But that was the thing – no matter how dark it got, I saw a light.

When I arrived at school, I saw a few of my friends in our regular place at a small campus café called Einstein's. Without a thought I sank down amongst them and was given a few half-hearted hellos and everyone continued to talk casually. My best friend Meg turned from her talk with a girl I didn't know. Meg. Where should I begin with her? She was the sort of girl one would only expect to frequent boutiques and high-class coffee shops, the ones that only work at fashion places. She had dead-straight platinum blonde hair, courtesy of a bottle of bleach, and hazel eyes. Occasionally she'd get a subtle fake tan but oftentimes her skin was pale.

'How did you do with that guy on the weekend?'

I shot her an icy look. 'Meg, it was _Raoul_. Y'know, the guy I've been seeing for three months?'

'Oh.' she grinned. I knew she was joking. Not only had Raoul and I been dating for three months, but also we'd been hanging out since, more or less, the first day of university. I had been sitting with Meg and I'd dropped my scarf. Before I'd had a chance, he had picked it up and handed it to me. 'Speak of the devil . . .' Meg said with a smirk as I felt a hand on my shoulder. Raoul sat down next to me and gingerly kissed my cheek.

'Hi.' I said timidly, the usual rush of butterflies in my stomach making me blush. Between us it was still romance and spontaneity.

'Morning.' he greeted me with a casual smile. My eyes danced over his attractive appearance. He had honey blonde hair and beautiful viridian eyes. Glancing at his lips, I blushed and quickly looked away.

'_Oh_,' Meg said in realisation, looking at us both; Raoul's arm was thrown over my shoulders. '_That_ Raoul. Right.'

'Shut up!' I said smilingly. I looked back at Raoul with a vague grin.

'I only have a lecture today. Come out this afternoon.'

I had an acting lecture, but I figured I could get the notes from Meg. Shooting her a glance, I saw her nod. 'Okay.'

'Great!' he said. 'Come to A3 at eleven.'

I gave another dreamy grin.

**xxxx**

That day, I went to the lecture theatre as law students packed up their notes and books and pens. Raoul stood from his place, smiling as he saw me, and walked down the stairs between the rows of seats to meet me. He put one hand on my waist and kissed my forehead.

'Ch- Christine . . .' he said, nervous like a little kid. 'There's something I've been dying to tell you.'

I looked into his eyes, trusting him completely. He had yet to let me down in anything. 'What is it?' I asked softly, reaching to push a strand of hair from his face. It fell back into place and I grinned. 'You can tell me anything.'

He held my hand and we walked a few steps and paused in front of the teacher's desk.

'Look, these are probably the most unremarkable circumstances in which to tell you, but I can't delay it a second longer.'

I smiled.

'I love you.'

I looked into his eyes, searching for a joke, but all I found was love. I smiled and wrapped my arms around him. Well, I don't know why I was so disbelieving. After all, he told me the day before. And the day before that. And once, when we'd been together for a month, but on that occasion he was drunk. And was saying it to everybody. It was pretty funny.

But I digress.

'Raoul . . .' I said, my voice muffled by his clothing.

'Yeah?' I heard his voice in his chest.

'I love you too.'

He laughed joyously and stroked my hair away from my face. We stood there for a moment that didn't last long enough when I pulled away. I stared into those green eyes, lost in their beautiful depth. He pressed his lips to mine and I smiled.

'Let's go.'

I glanced away for a brief second, only to meet the eyes of the professor at the front of the class, separated from us only by the desk. I noticed, at first, a mask shrouding his features in blackness, and then I saw that his hands were gripping a book so tightly that his knuckles were white and the book seemed about to be ripped in half. He seemed to restrain a growl and said through gritted teeth: 'Get. Out.'

Confused, I let Raoul pull me from the room.

He told me as we drove through the countryside that his teacher had, of late, begun treating him like dirt. His grades had slipped, though he assured me his work standards hadn't.

'Why?' I had to ask, looking at him and remembering the plain black mask that had covered the teacher's face so completely that I couldn't even see his eyes.

'I don't know.' he replied shortly, gripping the steering wheel tightly. 'Couple months ago, he was saying that I had a lot of promise, that I could be a good lawyer, but now . . . now, he hates me.'

I smiled comfortingly as we stopped at a small beachside café. I rolled my eyes.

'What?' he asked softly as we walked in and sat by the window, looking out at the ocean.

'This is cheesy. "I love you" in your classroom, an-'

'Shush.' he said, quieting me with a kiss.

That day we spent happy, perfectly content with only each other. But as we drove back to the city, a storm was brewing overhead. As we got back to my apartment, it started to pelt down with rain. We ran inside and I giggled, the freezing water running in rivulets down my skin. I started to shiver but Raoul went to the disused fireplace and used the few logs to light a fire. I smiled and curled into a ball, discarding my jacket, on the couch. Raoul was, in essence, an old-fashioned guy when it came to stuff he believed in.

Love meant marriage.

I felt my stomach drop as he sat next to me, the warmth slowly emanating towards us.

He left later that night and I smiled as I fell into bed.

**xxxx**

_The killer is nothing. He is part of an instrument. He sits at the small upright piano, fingers drifting deftly across the keys, caressing as a lover would. He plays softly, melancholy in every fibre of his being. The music rings out, each chord dying before he produces another. Yet they do not sob, his notes; they weep his sorrows quietly in a way words cannot. His heart flows into the piano as the music flows into his veins like a drug and he stops to ride his high._

_But then, as he takes his hands from the keyboard, his rage returns and he knows he needs something stronger. He's not usually one for the stupor of drunkenness and such stupidity. But tonight – he cannot visit his angel in this state for fear that he'll kill her – tonight he will go above and beyond. He will visit an old "friend" if he must._

_Thus he finds himself in a back alley. A few nervous teenagers ignore him, all of them staring in awe at various powders and tablets in a man's coat. But the killer simply nods; the dealer pushes past the skater-boys to his best client._

'_My favourite Ghost!' he says jubilantly, probably under the influence of several drugs at once. 'How goes it, Spec-'_

_In a second the killer's hand flies out from under the cloak he wears and is around the dealer's neck. 'How many times must I tell you not to say my name?'_

'_Yeah, yeah, ease off, bro.'_

_The killer applies his most terrifying look on the young but haggard man who simply shuffles on his feet._

'_What can I do you for, m'man?' asks the dealer, casually shoving his hand in his pocket. 'Watcha hankerin' for?'_

_The killer gives a sigh, his hand resting momentarily on the glinting, smiling knife in an inner pocket. 'I must . . . _escape_.'_

'_Ah, I know just the thing! C'mere.'_

_And he guides the killer to a dark corner. He produces a glowing tube full of blue liquid. 'Zydrate.' he says with a devilish smirk._

_For once the killer has a rare cautious moment. He doesn't want to be gone forever._

'_I'm one second from giving myself chloroform. Something that will make me oblivious for tonight and doesn't . . . glow.' he says cautiously, eyeing the vial with disdain._

'_Like your eyes, bro.' says the dealer, aside. The killer shoves him against the wall, eyes aflame with hellish fire, his head tilted quizzically. 'Nuthin', bro, nuthin'.' he gives a glance to the man, rummaging in his shirt. He gives him a piece of paper. 'Fake script for morphine. Fifty bucks and two hundred when you get there . . . free if you get me that dope.'_

'_Fine, fine.' the killer snatches the paper and folds it, shoving it in his breast pocket. _

'_Don't worry, be happy, bro!' says the dealer. This irritates the killer._

'_What do you think you are? A philosopher? No! You're a pathetic, pathetic drug dealer.'_

'_And you're a junkie. One all.' says the dealer, licking his finger and making a line in the air._

_The killer stalks off into the darkness._

**xxxx**

**I couldn't resist the Repo! reference. If you haven't seen it yet, you certainly should. It's an excellent film with our favourite soprano, Sarah Brightman. Cos also, then you'll get that reference.**

**Review if you got it, and even if you didn't.**

**Also, please be kind. I get this terrible anxiety with the second chapter, that it'll fail and everyone will hate it.**

**My two subscribers (and hopefully more), **_**pwetty pwease**_** will you review? 8D**

**See you next time!**


	3. Masks and Mrs Giry

**Author's Note: Heeeeeey.**

**Disclaimer: Gaston Leroux's ghost is friggin' scary, bro. Don't claim you own his three masterpiece characters, because he WILL attempt to kill you, and it WILL be disastrous when he summons said characters to assist him in your murder, and it will NOT make for a pleasant Tuesday evening, OK? Christine, Erik and Raoul are surprisingly violent when defending their master. That is Gaston Leroux. Not me. And they (this is their words, not mine) are obviously more pleasant and agreeable human beings than me. And I am a demonic cad for attempting to plagiarise Leroux's works. He is a genius and will only stay at rest if I say so. Same goes for our favourite love triangle. They're friggin' terrifying.**

**Moving on.**

**You may've noticed this already, but my Erik is **_**very**_** Leroux – though not his deformity, as we will find out reasonably soon. Just because he is deliciously dark and creepy.**

**Thanks endlessly, with Erik-shaped-cookies on top, for the FIVE people that put my story on alerts last chapter. You are the reason I update now. Please keep reviewing?**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

Raoul was lovable. That was the long and short of it. He was a nice, incredibly attractive, smart guy. Everybody loved him. Meg had been my best friend forever, because her mother Rose had been my mother's closest friend, and then my dad's after her death, and Meg and I had grown up together. In school we were inseparable. And since the start of university, she, Raoul and I had been close. Meg's boyfriends had come and gone, but she was always there.

'Girls night in with ice-cream and movies!' Meg ran up to me. Raoul's arm was around me.

I smiled. 'Friday?'

'Date.' Meg said, blushing. 'Saturday?'

'Date.' Raoul said possessively. I looked at him pleadingly.

'You're welcome to come.' Meg said, ruffling his hair. 'We can give you a makeover, you fopulent boy – imagine it now! . . . Raoulina!'

He chuckled, letting go of me. 'Fine then, take her.'

'It's Wednesday.' Meg said, giving him a blank stare.

'Yeah, and I've got a lecture in five minutes.' he turned to me and kissed me lightly. 'Seeya later.'

'Bye.'

Meg linked her arm into mine. 'D'aww, my little Christine's in luuuurve.'

I couldn't help but blush. I knew that I was, but still it was embarrassing. I hadn't even had a chance to tell my dad. Usually I told him all kinds of things like that. He had become a confidant after my mother died. And Meg I told everything, no matter how crass and disgusting she got.

'So've you screwed him yet?'

I blushed hotly, looking at her. 'Uh, no.'

'Well why?' she asked, grabbing my hand.

'I don't know.'

I knew exactly why. Raoul didn't believe in . . . _that_ before marriage. Feeling sufficiently awkward, I listened to Meg again.

'So, I met a guy.'

'A guy?'

'The new Guy.'

In high school, Meg had been with a guy, named, appropriately, Guy. She had been head-over-heels in love with him, and from then on, every boy she liked was 'The new Guy'. And yes, she _did_ think that was incredibly witty.

'Let me guess . . .' I was about to rattle off a description of an incredibly ugly man, when something stopped me.

And that something was Raoul's Law teacher, Mr Specteur. He walked directly in front of us and stopped absentmindedly. I tapped him on the shoulder and bit my lip.

'Excuse me, _sir_.' Meg said next to me. He looked at both of us. I felt his eyes against mine and I was instantly unnerved. They were boring into me, though I couldn't see them, and I could imagine an expression of disgust on his face underneath the mask. But something seemed to spark.

'Pardon me.' he said sharply. 'Miss Giry, Miss Daaé, do you not have a class?'

'Ah . . . yeah . . . ?' Meg said tentatively. I was frozen.

_How did he know my name?_

He nodded and walked away from us. I gripped Meg's arm.

'What's your problem?'

'Didn't that creep you out?'

'What? No.' she gave me a sideways glance. 'No, he was friends with Mum way back, before he . . . he started wearin' a mask. There's a picture of him hanging up in our house. He . . . he's weird. Sometimes . . .'

'Sometimes what?' I insisted nervously.

'Sometimes Mum'll go to see him.' she said, staring after him. 'But hardly ever. She says he . . . plans things.'

Meg tapped the side of her head with an uncertain look on her face. 'He's crazy. Raoul told me.'

'He told _you_?' I said in confused disbelief.

'Yeah, said he didn't want to worry you. Old lady.'

'Little flirt.' I giggled, happy to forget what had just happened.

'Hey, see you Friday? Not at school tomorrow.' she pecked my cheek lightly. 'My place. Bye!'

'Bye.' I said, increasing my speed as Meg walked away. I didn't know what was going on, but I did know it frightened me.

**xxxx**

_The killer moves to his love's bedside. Today was hell. He passed it with too much coffee and not enough water. The result was skin that felt too tight and a splitting headache. He sighs and takes off the mask._

'_You hurt me.' he says simply, tragically. 'You hurt me, my Christine. Saying you love the boy right in my face?' he leans forward and rests his lips on her forehead as he speaks. 'Don't make me hurt you, Christine. It hurts me too. Do you remember when you didn't pass with your essay?' he pauses as if waiting for a response. 'I _want_ you to succeed. But as _my_ Christine. My Christine . . .' The killer's hand drifts over her face and she sighs sleepily. He returns the sigh but sadly. She rolls over and snuggles back into her covers._

_He feels like a spoilt child. He isn't getting what he wants, and he feels the appropriate reaction is a tantrum. His hand holds her face tenderly but he keeps a fair distance, scared that she'll pull him into her arms again._

_She wakes and doesn't look at him. He leaps up and hides under the bed – where else? He hears her breath becoming even._

_Slowly she drifts back into sleep, not even acknowledging his presence. He shudders and sees a stain on her shirt. He gets an old, baggy t-shirt from her drawer and looks at her. Biting his lip, he props her up on the pillows._

'_Forgive me.' he says slowly, carefully removing her top and blushing. He thanks whatever higher benevolent spirit there is in the universe that she's at least wearing a bra. He hates himself for touching her in this way. It's awful and wrong. Slipping the replacement clothing over her head and her arms into its holes, he goes and washes her shirt. He sighs._

_Like music, like morphine, Christine's a drug that the killer will never be able to give up. He hates himself for loving her, hates himself for what he just did. Wallowing in self-loathing, he climbs out the window, unmasked._

_She rolls over in her sleep._

**xxxx**

I woke slowly. But I sprang to my feet at the sight of a black cloth mask sitting on the floor.

I moved to pick it up. Stretching it out, I saw that it was undoubtedly Mr Specteur's. I shook my head in disbelief and stood up to wash myself. It was Friday.

After my shower I called Meg.

'Hey!' she chirped. I winced at the volume.

'Hey, Meg . . . I think I have food poisoning or something. Weird thing is, I woke up and there was a mask . . . There was a mask on my bedroom floor.'

I heard someone swear loudly, terrified, on the other end. I heard Meg's mother and her strong French accent. 'My dear,' she said, horrified. 'My dear, describe this mask to me!'

'Mrs Giry?'

'Do it, my dear!'

'Uh . . . it's black. And made of some kind of cloth . . . Two eye-holes . . . they're really small.'

'_Merde!_' I heard her say pointedly. I guessed that wasn't French for "Oh good, my daughter's best friend has a creepy mask-wearing stalker. Joy!" 'Meg!' she barked commands at her daughter. 'Christine, Meg and I will be there shortly. Get dressed, be ready to leave. Do you understand, girl?'

'Yeah, I guess.'

And then she was gone. Confused, I dressed, noticing the baggy t-shirt I was wearing.

_I didn't put that on_.

I shuddered and got dressed quickly. I was waiting by the door with a small bag and the mask in my hand. Flinging the door open, Mrs Giry and Meg ran in. She grabbed my wrist and basically gave me to Meg, snatching the mask from my hand and swearing again.

'You say it was here when you woke up, my dear?'

'Yeah, why?'

'Nothing! Nothing, it is nothing! Meg, take Christine to our house. I will meet you there in a few hours. Keep her _inside_!'

Meg silently obeyed.

**xxxx**

_The killer sits in his music room, playing something simple to keep his mind off everything that happened last night. Fur Elise floats out of the piano but it comes to an abrupt halt._

'_To what do I owe the displeasure, Giry?' he asks, distracting himself by tidying the papers atop the piano._

'_You're stalking Christine.'_

_The killer cannot deny that Christine is everything. Christine is his day, Christine is his night. Christine is the reason he breathes; she is the reason that his heart beats. But innocently he returns: 'Who is Christine?'_

'_You left your mask in her room last night.'_

_He turns around, a spare mask on his face, and knocks down the piano bench. 'What business have you in the matter? I suppose you told Rasheed too!'_

'_Not yet!' says the Frenchwoman, moving towards him cautiously. Her high-heeled black shoes click on the black granite tiles and the killer tenses at the sight of her. 'But I _will_ if you do not promise to stop!'_

'_Erik promises nothing! Erik promises only to love his Christine . . .'_

_The woman, unnerved, steps back and the killer takes his opportunity. He seizes her wrist. _

'_Erik will always love his Christine. If Marie tries to come between them, Erik will make her death painful!' he hisses caustically. His eyes are blazing with the demonic fires of Hell and she recoils slightly._

'_Unhand me!' she demands and he loosens his grip._

'_Yes, Erik will _kill_ Marie.' he says childishly, moving back to the piano. He picks up his red fountain pen and a piece of paper then sketches a noose on the paper, quickly but deftly. He hands it to the woman. His voice returns to its deep, resounding timbre, rather than the light, childish tone he uses when speaking in third person. He cannot help it; he thinks of the days when he was younger. He becomes the young man, though he knows that this "Erik" is a hideous, freakish monster. A murderer. He wants to distance himself from the hideous creature of darkness. 'Think of this as a warning, Giry. Stay away from my business, and don't drag Rasheed into it. You may consider yourselves friends to me, but I haven't any hesitation in killing the both of you, and your precious Meg.'_

'_Keep your filthy hands away from my daughter.' says the woman. 'And I will keep mine out of your business.'_

'_Certainly, Mrs Giry. Now if you would kindly get out of my home before I kill you, that would be most kind of you.'_

_The woman leaves the killer in an angry daze._

**xxxx**

**In case you haven't guessed, this doesn't follow Leroux completely. I've melded it to suit the story I'm telling. **

**Oh, and I hereby copyright the word "fopulent" . . . Yeah, don't ask. Long story.**

**Thanks again to all the people that reviewed and put this story on alerts last chapter. Reviews = Love. So PLEASE press that little button . . . :)**

**See you next time.**


	4. Photographs, Nights Out and Abductions

**Okay, we can all relax knowing that Leroux and friends probably aren't stalking me anymore. Your beloved author probably won't be killed by classical literary characters and their creators in the near future.**

**(Sorry for the bad chapter name, but it seems I'm hitting a bit of a drought at the moment.**

**This chapter, Christine gets abducted, but we don't **_**really**_** get into it . . . yeeaaaah, I'm moving quickly for a reason at this point, so you know. Craploads to get through and all that.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

I was confused. Meg pulled out a picture and showed it to me. It was her mother and two men I hadn't seen before. One of them was dark-skinned with a black beard and moustache, and the other had pale skin, but he was clean-shaven and oddly handsome, with intense eyes. His arms were crossed and he was looking away from his companions. He was wearing a black suit and he was tall and thin, ridiculously so. Her mother looked happy.

'Him.' she pointed at the brooding man. 'That's Specteur. Him and Mum, and this guy – his name's Radish or something – they all knew each other younger.'

'Huh.' I mused, lingering on the image of Specteur. I imagined if he still looked like that.

Meg smiled and looked, confused, into the face of the unmasked man. 'So why'd he start wearing that . . . _thing_?'

Suddenly Mrs Giry walked into the room. Seeing us holding the picture, she gasped and ran over to us, snatching it and inspecting it carefully as she did so. 'Meg!' she said, mesmerised by it. 'I told you never to . . . go . . . through . . . my photographs . . .'

'Sorry, Mother.' Meg replied, rolling her eyes at me.

She looked up, eyes blazing. 'Christine, you – oh, God, I must talk to Rasheed about this. Never mind.'

And then she rushed off. Meg and I began to watch movies, my upheaval all but forgotten. The movies were old; from the 20's and 30's. Old movie stars lamented terrible problems, like vampires and mummies . . . it just made us laugh.

**xxxx**

'He is obsessed again.'

'_No! With what?'_

'A girl at the university, a friend of Meg's. She is catching on, I think.'

'_God, please, tell me, no! A field of research, we can deal with! But not a person! This is not good, Marie!'_

'You're telling _me_, Rasheed. Keep an eye on him, alright.'

'_Yes Marie. I will be sure to. Goodbye.'_

'Goodbye, Rasheed.'

**xxxx**

Later that night, Raoul came over. I was nestled comfortably between the two of them as we moved on to watching movies from childhood. It distracted me and made me nostalgic and happy. I fell asleep on the couch. I was comfortable.

**xxxx**

_The killer hates that he has to come to such a place to see his Christine. His hand resting on her shoulder, he leans to kiss her forehead. His hand twists into her hair and he tilts her face up. He cannot resist quickly, nervously pressing his lips to hers, and then fairly exploding with delight. He leans back, lets go of her, and she nestles back amongst her pillows. He glances at the boy and he hears him breathing; the killer can imagine his pulse. Yes, one day he'll stop that terrible beat._

_He stands and moves silently into Marie's bedroom. He remembers one night, when he was still handsome and young and foolish, going into that bedroom on very different terms, in fact in Marie's arms. But now she disgusts him as surely as he disgusts her – she only wants to deter him in all his endeavours, even if it is for his happiness. She does not care about his happiness. She cares about him stopping the murdering – she does not understand. He grabs the mask from her nightstand and is out of the house before she can notice he was there._

**xxxx**

In the morning, everyone else was awake before me. I heard Meg and Raoul talking and laughing in the kitchen; I heard the sizzle of bacon being fried. With a smile on my face, I rose from the couch. I dressed in the lounge room, hearing Mrs Giry enter and hiss something to them. Worried, I walked into the room. They all looked up at me. I smiled.

'It's my _hair_, isn't it?' I joked. They shared an awkward glance.

'Yes!' Raoul exclaimed. I narrowed my eyes and he ran over to kiss me hurriedly. 'I mean, no, but . . . sorry.' he smiled, and added quickly: 'Sweetheart.'

'What are you all looking at me like that for?'

'Christine?' I recognised Mrs Giry's strong French accent. 'The . . . the mask is gone.'

I am not generally one to faint. In that situation, however, there was nothing else to do.

I woke up on the couch and I screamed. 'Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap, crap!' I muttered, rocking in my place. Raoul held me close.

'Calm down, love, it's alright.' he whispered in my ear, pressing his lips to my temple. I rested my head on him and closed my eyes.

'_Merde!_' Mrs Giry muttered again. I bit my lip and closed my eyes, dreaming that this whole thing was just that – a nightmare. This wasn't happening. I wasn't being stalked by a teacher. Definitely not.

But I should have realised going out with Raoul, Meg, and her new boyfriend was probably not a good idea. That night we went out dancing and drinking. The new Guy, Jason, was actually lovely. He was obviously trying hard to impress all three of us; he was searching the approval of Raoul and I as much as Meg's acceptance.

As we left, I should have realised that I was drunk. I should have realised I was vulnerable. But we found ourselves in a dark alleyway. We were stumbling along and talking too loudly when we realised there was a dark figure approaching us. We continued to chat and giggle pointlessly. Jason and Meg were wrapping their arms tightly around each other while Raoul just held my hand. We saw the figure stop and we did the same.

Raoul looked at the figure, smiling inanely. 'Look, guys, a _ghost_.' he said quietly. A sweet, smooth voice that ran into my ears like honey would run down my throat reached us as he came towards us, gently coaxing us to come closer – or maybe that was just me.

'A _harmless_ ghost, I assure you.' he cooed.

I unconsciously took a few sluggish steps forward. His eyes were so _prettily_ shining in the darkness, like candles. Raoul let go of my hand as I took another step.

'A harmless ghost, my dear . . .' he was looking into my eyes. He extended his arm to me, a gloved hand branching from it. Meg and Jason were too busy making out to notice what was going on. 'Touch my hand – a _tangible_ ghost!'

Indeed I did touch his hand, and he wrenched me into his arms. I shrieked as there was a needle-sharp pain in my side. At this Raoul shouted angrily.

'That's _my_ girl!' he said as I began to drift dizzily into the enveloping shadows. They were so warm and comforting, like a sheepskin blanket . . .

'Not any more, de Chagny . . .' I heard the figure saying as I fell to the ground in blackness.

**xxxx**

_The killer takes the girl in his arms, leaving three drunken and confused youths behind him. He strokes her hair away from her face and looks at her as he walks. Oh, how beautiful she is. This he will never kill. It is dead beauty already. _

_When he finds himself in his home, he realises that he cannot let her sleep in what she is wearing. She will be uncomfortable, and he can't have that. The killer gingerly takes off her coat, but seeing her bare, pale arms he knows he can go no further. He shivers and removes her shoes then gently arranges her underneath the rich red and black covers of her bed. She is home, he thinks; she is truly where she belongs. She looks content and comfortable and he feels a thrill of joy simply by looking at her. She is his Christine and very, very soon, she will know it._

_There is much to be done, he decides, before she wakes up. He tidies her room and makes sure there is everything she needs for when she wants to bathe. He's been around her enough to know her dress sizes and he thinks she will like the clothing he has bought for her. He made sure, when he went out, that he didn't get anything she'd disapprove of. For him, it's not about getting her into bed, although-_

_His train of thought stops and he smiles contentedly, glancing at her peaceful form. He takes her handbag from its discarded place. He cannot have her contacting anyone. They will not understand the romance he shares with her. They can never understand._

**xxxx**

_Oh holy Hell, my head . . ._

There was gentle candlelight enticing me to open my eyes, but I moaned and rolled over, putting a pillow over my head. This was the worst hangover since I was fifteen years old and at my first party. My hands unconsciously rubbed my stomach and I felt sick.

_I have to throw up . . ._

I moaned again and saw that there were candles all around my bed. My head felt like there was a rave party of heroin addicts and drunks going on inside it and I held my forehead. Next to the bed was a capsule, half green, half white, and a glass of water. Next to that there was a note and I picked it up. In delicate red ink my name was written and I unfolded the fine paper.

_Christine,  
We have much to discuss, silly girl. You've hurt me, you know. And now, because of your stupid use of alcohol, you've hurt yourself too. You will regret this, my dear. But do not fear because I will take care of you. I will be in shortly with some coffee and breakfast. Until then, sleep and relax, but do not get out of bed. The pill next to you is a painkiller and it will settle your stomach. I've no need to drug you, and you needn't think you'll be taken advantage of here. I've had my opportunities before.  
Sleep for now and I will wake you when breakfast is ready.  
All my love,  
Erik_

That note only served to screw with my head. He had opportunities to rape me or something . . . else before? My body quaked and, desperate for relief, I took the pill and drank all the water. My head was pulsing and it was easy to fall asleep again.

But I only slept for ten minutes before I found my eyes open. As far as I knew, I had been kidnapped. What did I remember from the night before? . . . Dancing, drinks . . . a dark alley, a black mask, a sharp pain . . . then waking up in this room. On the black-painted walls there were a few paintings, some landscapes and what looked to be architecture drawings, and I noticed a portrait of a beautiful girl with flowing blonde hair, pale skin and piercing blue eyes. She was wearing Victorian clothing in light colours and with puffy sleeves, like a wedding dress.

The bed itself had a black transparent canopy that made everything seem darker. There seemed to be about twenty pillows behind me and the blankets were black and red silk and velvet; they were heavy and warm. I couldn't deny it was comfortable. But there was a knot of uneasiness and straight-out panic in my stomach and I was, to be honest, scared. I noticed that my shoes and jacket were hanging on the doorknob of a huge wardrobe near the bed. I scrambled to my feet and opened the closet. Inside there was clothing in dramatic shades like red, black and white. It was all pretty – and exactly my size. A disturbed shudder passed through me.

I moved to the door in the wall and opened it. In there was a shower, a sink, and a huge bathtub. The room was all in black marble, veined with blue and green and all the taps were gold. In the cupboard were basic toiletries – someone obviously intended for me to stay there a while.

I stood as I heard a sound and bolted back to the bed, right as I saw the door opening.

**xxxx**

**ZOMG! Erik and Christine come face-to-mask next chapter. That's a great reason to stick around, isn't it? Well, you should review. Like, now. To tell me how excited you are for the next chapter. XD**

**See you next time.**


	5. Missing and Madness

**You guys, review. You have NO idea how much it means. And if I get say five reviews, I PROMISE I'll update tomorrow. And if not . . . then I'll probably update soon too. But your continued support means a LOT. Thanks. Hope you like Erik and Christine's first exchange!**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

I sat in the bed and watched the masked man enter the room holding a tray with toast, juice, bacon and eggs. He was wearing a black suit with a deep red-burgundy cravat – who wore _cravats_?

He casually closed the door with his foot and walked over to me. He sat on the edge of the bed and wordlessly placed the tray on my lap. I glared at him.

'Eat.' he coaxed gently.

'What the _Hell_ is your malfunction?' I exclaimed dramatically.

His head tilted to the side, both patronising and quizzical. 'My dear, I haven't the faintest idea what you mean. Now please, _eat._'

I stared down at the food. It looked good.

'It's not poisoned, if that's what you're thinking, dear. You're weak enough as it is.' he stated plainly.

'Why am I weak?' I asked, not even giving him the courtesy of eye contact. I stared at the bacon and eggs. I was really hungry . . . and it was looking more and more appetising by the second.

'Because the drug I gave you left you sickened.' This was said as a matter of course; it didn't seem to matter to the masked man. But I couldn't see his face, to my consternation.

'You _drugged _me?'

'Yes . . .' he said, as if it were the most obvious thing he'd ever said, and he was speaking down to a naughty child. I could almost hear his raised eyebrow. 'It is not as if you would have come willingly to me.'

Without another word, and slightly disturbed, I set at eating. I felt self conscious; his eyes never left me as I ate. When I'd finished I pushed the tray aside and my captor carefully picked it up. I furrowed my brow and crossed my arms, feeling like a spoilt brat.

'Why am I _here_?' I asked quietly.

'Because, Christine, I love you.' Oh, well, that was _fine_ then! 'You have to stay here with me. I could not last another moment without you here.' His tone was nonchalant, yet tinged with sadness when he told me he loved me. I stared at him in annoyance and disbelief and he stood.

There was some kind of disturbing edge to his words. He left for a second and returned empty handed, then strode with fluid movements over to the wardrobe. He pulled out a red t-shirt and black jeans then laid them out on the armchair. 'Please get dressed. I should like to show you around today . . . that is if you get out of bed.' Something in his tone was all at once inviting, critical and venomous.

'Show me around where?' I asked cautiously.

'Your new home, of course.' he said, walking over to me, taking my hand and pressing the false lips of his mask to it.

Before I could retaliate, he was out of the room.

I saw no course of action but to follow his instructions – _demands_ – until I could find a route of escape. I dressed and tidied my hair in the bathroom mirror.

**xxxx**

He showed me around. It was a beautiful house, though very dark. The windows were all stained-glass, but not with typical religious scenes. There seemed to be characters from stories, and one in particular made me stop. It was hellish and terrifying – there were fires burning behind a black shrouded figure with a scar down one side of his face. Noticing that I stopped, Erik – as he _insisted_ most emphatically I was to call him – looked up at the window. I noticed that it was dark outside, despite me having had breakfast a half hour earlier.

'That's . . . a . . . self-portrait of sorts . . .' he said awkwardly, gingerly touching my arm as a hint to follow him. I rolled my eyes and obeyed.

'How long are you going to keep me here?' I asked as he went to open a door. He turned to look into my eyes, their invisible intensity burning on my face as I looked at him.

'Christine,' he said slowly as if savouring my name. 'You will be free to return to what you knew before when I am certain you'll return to me, from time to time . . .'

'I will! Whenever you want!' I said pleadingly.

'There's no point in begging.' He turned back to the door. 'Now, come in here . . . I think you will find comfort in this room. I know I do.'

And he opened the door.

Inside there was a beautiful room, beautiful because of the things in it. An ebony piano sat in the middle of the room and around the room there were also other instruments – among them I noticed the makings of what could have been half an orchestra – and on every flat surface there was sheet music scrawled with red notes and annotation.

'Do you play _all_ of these?' I asked in disbelief, noticing a pipe organ on the far wall.

'Not the French horn. I never saw a point in learning that.' he sighed and seemed to be addressing himself almost silently: 'Erik wanted to hire someone to play it, when he got an orchestra to play his work.'

I smiled, ignoring that and dismissing it as . . . madness. Going to the piano, I played the melody to a lullaby that my mother used to sing to me.

'_That's_ not how you play a piano!' Erik said dismissively, sliding down onto the bench and playing the Moonlight Sonata from memory. As he did, I was amazed and terrified by his passion. The piece had never sounded so beautiful or awe-inspiring. I sat down on a chair nearby and listened, my eyes drifting shut. I simply wanted to listen; I didn't notice when he stopped and moved over to me. His hand caressed my face and I opened my eyes slowly.

'That . . . you're good!' I said, hating myself for falling into the trap I knew he had purposefully set.

'Mm. Thank you, dear. So kind of you to compliment me.' he seemed to smile. His hand reached for my own and I pulled away. He nodded, burnt, and opened the door. 'Come, there are a few other things I want to show you.'

He showed me a library and a room wherein there was a sort of glass enclosure in the middle of the room – in the centre plants grew. They were all verdant and green, and there was even a tree. I glanced at Erik.

'I do not like to go outside when it isn't necessary. But imagine, a _garden_ inside. I think it's quite novel.' I noticed as he spoke that in the glass enclosure, the lights were unnaturally bright. They were shining almost painfully into the surrounding room, but I couldn't see anything else in there.

'It's unhealthy.' I returned carefully. 'You should get out more.' I paused and glanced at him as he turned away and I almost felt it get darker in there. 'Come on, can't you take _me_ outside?'

'No.' Erik replied quietly, darkly.

And then he grabbed my arm and took me back to my room. 'Make yourself comfortable, my dear. You should rest some more, too. I'll bring some lunch for you later.'

Erik walked out of the room and I heard a bolt turn in it; I was trapped in that cursed room. When I realised that, I did the only natural thing – I ran around the room screaming and looking for an escape.

I did that until I lost my voice and then fell, defeated, into the armchair by the bed.

**xxxx**

Raoul woke with a pounding head, terrified of what happened the night before. Was Christine really gone? She couldn't be. He ran to the phone and dialled her number, waiting anxiously for a response.

'_Hey, this is Christine. I'm not in right now, bu-_'

He slammed the phone down into its cradle and pushed a hand through his hair. What happened? He knew it was a mistake to drink that much – the throbbing in his head told him that – and now, he was paying for it, possibly with Christine's life. He angrily moved through the house, loud.

'Raoul . . .' said a deep, husky voice. He turned to see Philippe.

'Yes?' he asked shortly.

'What's up your ass, kid?' snapped Philippe, his older brother.

'Christine's missing.'

'Missing? Aww, my little brother's first one-night stand! Congrat-'

'No, Philippe, not like that – get your mind out of the gutter. I'm not _like_ that with her!' he found himself blushing.

'Sure, sure, little brother. What're you so worried about?' Philippe disappeared into his room but came back a moment with a shirt pulled on over his thin frame. 'She's just a girl. It's not like there ain't a million others like her.'

Raoul's cheeks burnt.

'What about that blonde skank you're always hanging out with . . . Maggie or whatever?'

'Meg.' his lip twitched. 'I don't think of her that way, Philippe. She's just a friend. And Christine's not just any random girl.'

'Fag.' Philippe said lightly, making Raoul blush even harder, in anger. 'Just marry her, then, you little gay.'

'I fully intend to . . . if I ever see her again.'

Raoul loved his brother, truly he did, but his views on women and love were so . . . so simplistic. As far as he saw it, girls were good for screwing and cooking. And it disgusted Raoul, sometimes. He remembered when he was twelve, when his parents were still alive, and Philippe came home at four o'clock, smelling of whiskey and cheap perfume (_Mum, Dad, I was just out with some friends! . . . Me, sleep with a girl? On a school night? Never!_)

He knew the things Philippe did with girls. He knew the things Philippe told girls to do (_But I love you, baby!_) and how they submissively obeyed him, simply to get more of that blonde guy with the blue eyes and the huge . . .

Wallet.

Raoul sighed and pulled the jug of juice from the refrigerator. He poured himself a glass, but the orange liquid seemed completely unappetising, even sickening. He wanted Christine back, damn it, and he would do whatever the Hell he had to in order to have her. They'd been dating for no more than three months – a mere twelve weeks, just _eighty-four_ days – but he was completely and entirely in love with her. Her gentle, beautiful eyes, her calm nature, her sweet voice, the way she whispered timidly that she loved him too.

'Phone!' Philippe cried, his head poking out from the hallway.

'Thanks . . .' Raoul said softly, musing. He picked it up. 'Hello?'

'_Raoul! It's Meg! Seen Christine?_' her voice came crackling over the phone line like bullets to his aching brain.

'No, have you?'

'_Nope. God . . . wait . . . what happened last night, anyways?_'

'I haven't got the faintest idea but I'm thinking I'm going to go to her apartment.'

'_I'll be at yours in fifteen minutes!_'

And then she was gone. Raoul gave a saddened sigh. He cradled his head in his hands as he wondered who had taken Christine, and where it was that she'd gone to. What Hell? . . . Or what Paradise? _A tangible ghost!_ He remembered the dark figure had said. He groaned and rested his head on the bench, knocking the glass to the floor. As the liquid spilt on the carpet, he ignored it, thinking only of Christine.

**xxxx**

**This is the part where I shamelessly beg for reviews . . . pretty, pretty please? It means more than you think. MERCI!**

**See you next time.**


	6. Face Of a Monster and Eyes Like Candles

**Hey.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

The next morning I woke up and Erik was sitting in the armchair, an empty wineglass on the nightstand and a book on his chest, which rose and fell with his breath as he slept. I remembered that the night before I had fallen into bed. He had been sitting there as I started to fall asleep, the wineglass in his hand as he hummed a lullaby.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. I recoiled at the sight of his eyes . . . or lack thereof. They didn't show in the light, that still seemed artificial, despite it being morning.

'Oh, forgive me!' he exclaimed suddenly. 'How dishonourable of me! I shouldn't . . .' his eyes flashed with emotion, though I couldn't see them. 'I'll make you breakfast. Wait here.'

And he took the glass and book, escaping the room quickly. I got up and ran a brush through my dishevelled curls, carefully arranging them around my face and going to the wardrobe, getting a knee-length black dress with a full skirt and slipping it on. Everything I wore, everything in that closet, made me feel pretty. They accentuated the features that I liked about myself, and I smiled, content with my reflection in the full-length mirror in the black marble bathroom.

'Your breakfast is ready, _Christine_.'

He spoke my name reverently – I heard Dad say the Lord's Prayer in that tone once.

Oh, God, Dad! He would be worried sick for me.

I sat in the dining room and he brought me a plate of pancakes. He sat opposite me and I indulged him with a smile as I ate. But there was something niggling at me. I was wondering what was underneath his mask. Raoul said he'd never seen underneath, and on the first day of the year the teacher said that if nobody asked about or touched the mask, everybody would make it through the year in one piece, apparently procuring nervous giggles from half the class and an inane sense of curiosity in everyone else.

After breakfast, he asked me if he could sing for me. I agreed nervously and then he led me to the music room, apparent excitement in his eyes. He put a chair carefully near the organ and gestured to it. I carefully sat down, wishing to take away that mask. Was he handsome or ugly? . . . I suppressed a giggle at the thought of somebody being so ugly they needed a mask.

'Are you familiar with _Othello?_'

'I studied it in high school . . .'

He gave a snort. 'Othello thought his wife Desdemona was having an affair – so he killed her.' he paused, death in silence. 'Jealousy does frightening things to people.'

'Yeah, I'm sure.' I agreed absently, not caring. He began to play and lifted his voice – dear, sweet God, where do I begin to describe that voice? It was like hearing somebody weep over all their sorrows, yet at the same time, something about its power was . . . triumphant. Not to mention that as I distinguished words, it was as if he truly was in the middle of a jealous rage – his voice, on top of everything, was painfully passionate. I was scared the music would consume me.

And then he closed his eyes. Surely I could just snatch a look under the mask. He wouldn't notice. He wouldn't notice . . .

I found myself starting towards Erik, my hands shaking. Surely he wasn't that ugly or anything. Surely. He was so lost in the jealous passion of Othello, I doubted he would even notice if I stole a glance and put the mask straight back on.

Ridding myself of these thoughts, I slid my fingers under the mask and pulled it away.

He screamed in rage and sorrow as he stood. I screamed in horror. I can never fully encompass the terror of his face simply by describing it. It was burnt and coming away from the bones; the muscles were visible as they moved, and there was very little scarred, yellowed skin left – only along his jaw and forehead. The wounds weren't fresh; they looked old and blistered, yet still disgusting. And his eyes . . . dear holy Heaven, his eyes! Well, there seemed to be nothing there . . . _at all_. I didn't know whether to laugh at Nature's cruel farce, scream at the horror or retch in disgust.

'You wanted to _see_, did you?' he exclaimed angrily, moving towards me. I backed away until I was against the wall. _God, don't hurt me . . ._ 'Well, you can _stare_ forever if you want to!'

'No, no, no, no, no . . .' I muttered. There was no way of escape.

'Why are you so afraid, my dear _Christine_? You wanted to see . . . _so look!_' he grabbed my face in his thin, spindly fingers. I tried to close my eyes, but he cruelly held them open and held his hideous face too close. 'Look at me, Christine, look at me!' he laughed evilly.

'Feast your eyes, my darling, look! I'm almost as beautiful as you, am I not? But wait . . .' something flashed, deep in his eye-sockets. 'You wanted to take off _that_ mask . . .' He pointed haphazardly at the discarded black cloth on the floor nearby. His voice was painfully calm though I could hear an undercurrent of building rage . . . _why was he so calm_? 'Then why not take off this one too?'

'W- what do you mean?' I whimpered. His hands tightened on my face.

'What reason is there for _this_ not to be a mask too, my love?' and then he grabbed my hands. Realising what he meant, I squirmed and shrieked in fear. All Erik offered in reply was a maddened cackle. His hands guiding my own, he pressed them onto his head. The wig had come away as he'd stormed towards me. 'So take this mask off too, dear, see what's underneath it!'

And then he dug my fingernails into his marred, disgusting skin. I felt him shaking.

'Stop . . . _please_ stop!'

I cannot fully describe the horror of the situation. At last, when pained, frustrated tears poured down his face, Erik let me go. He crawled like an animal towards his mask. I simply stared at him. 'Go away.' he said at last. 'Leave me.'

Only too happy to escape, I raced to the door. My hands, I retched at the sight of them, were covered in blood and God knew what else. I went to my room and tried to wash my hands. The disgusting red matter was gone – I'd used about half a bottle of liquid soap – but still I felt wrong . . . evil.

_He's just in love._

That, I thought, must have been my conscience. I'd wronged him, not the other way around. How could I live with myself, doing that to him? It should have been obvious that I wasn't to touch his mask.

_In return for his love, you betray him._

Yes, of course, he was just in love. That was all.

_You're a wonderful person, Christine._

The voice was bitter and reproachful, chiding me harshly, and I couldn't even try to fight back, saying that I didn't deserve it, because I did. I was in the wrong.

I felt terrible. Tears ran down my face, making trails. I bit my lip and wiped them away. I had to apologise. He deserved an apology. He did what he did because he was angry; it was his right.

I carefully walked down the hall to the music room. Inside, I heard something terrible. It was the strangest music – so complex I could scarcely believe one person was playing it – that was at once tragic, horrifying, insane and . . . and it evoked some emotion in me that I had never experienced before.

But it stopped as soon as I opened the door. Erik made no reaction to my presence other than ceasing, his hands hanging limply by his sides.

'That was . . . beautiful.' I said timidly.

'What do you want?' came the cold reply.

I passed a hand through my hair. 'I . . . wanted to say I'm sorry.'

He made no response.

'It was really awful of me to do that. Really,' I sighed and paused. 'I didn't mean to hurt you, Erik. I . . .'

He stood and slowly turned to face me. His face was terrible but not as sickening. Before, it had been twisted into a mask of rage and horror, but now, his brow was knitted with sadness, as if _he_ was wrong. '_You_ are apologising to _me_?' he said in disbelief. Confused, I nodded. 'Oh, Christine, my Christine . . .' he murmured sadly. He came towards me and I cowered. I was convinced he was going to kill me. His rage before showed me that he was probably capable of such a thing. But when he was about three feet away he crumpled, collapsed at my feet. Sobbing uncontrollably, he murmured something I didn't understand. I carefully knelt in front of him and he crawled closer to me.

'Oh, Christine, _I_ am sorry . . . I am a monster . . .'

I wasn't about to debate that point.

'You apologise . . . you are an angel.' he sighed and his fingers toyed with the edge of the dress I was wearing. His beautiful voice was shaking as I watched him wallowing in misery. 'Please forgive your Erik. He doesn't mean to hurt his Christine, his _angel_.'

And then he cried. Not knowing what else to do, I sat there helplessly. Vehemently, he pressed his thin lips to the hem of my dress, still muttering words I didn't understand. I knelt there for a few minutes while he did, and I wondered what had happened to him to make his face like it was. I didn't dare to ask, thinking he'd probably get angry again and kill me. At last when he collected himself, he stood and got his mask. Moving back towards me as he adjusted it, he pulled me to my feet. I stepped back unconsciously.

'Forgive me for that . . . outburst.'

The rest of the day I sat in the library. I was trying to distract myself from everything. I read _The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe_ by C.S. Lewis. I remembered that it was my mother's favourite book when she was alive. I allowed myself to get lost in the story and I didn't notice when Erik placed himself on the floor near the couch I was stretched out on, and I didn't notice when there were tears running down his face. In fact, the only thing that alerted me to his presence was when I laughed, looking away from the book and seeing him there.

I gasped.

'How long have you been there?' I asked, confused.

'I'm sorry.' he said. 'Forgive me . . .'

And he moved to leave. I laughed again and he stopped.

'You don't have to go. I was surprised, that's all.' I shook my head and went back to reading.

'You mean . . . you . . . don't _mind_ me sitting here with you?'

'Nope . . .' I smiled slightly and continued to read. I didn't think it was that big a deal, but when I glanced at him again, his arms were resting on his knees which were clutched to his body, and his head was rested on his arms. He was shaking.

Nonchalantly, I went back to reading.

**xxxx**

After I'd gotten ready for bed, I heard a knock at the door.

'Uh . . . come in?' I said, slipping into the bed. Erik seemed to smile as he walked over with a tea tray and he handed me a cup. I smiled gratefully and sipped it. 'Thanks.' I said quietly.

When I'd finished he timidly took my hand and pressed his lips to it, folding up the mask with his spare hand. He turned off the lights at the door. There was no light from the hallway, and I couldn't help but scream. His eyes had turned yellow in the dark, glowing hideously. He moaned.

'I forgot . . . I am so sorry . . . Erik's eyes are like candles, no?' Without waiting for a response, he turned and left, the tray in his hands..

Discontented, I laid down and went to sleep, wondering how I was going to escape.

**xxxx**

**Okay, I am going to say THANKS for the reviews so far, but keep up with it, PLEASE? **

**Also, I noticed a mistake. In the first chapter I said Meg's mother's name was Rose, but no, it's Marie. Sorry for the mistake. I'll fix it ASAP. Till then, REVIEW! Please.**

**See you next time!**


	7. Absolution

**Oh, my dear readers, it's been a long time.**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

I felt like an idiot. The next morning Erik was seated dutifully in the armchair next to the bed. I restrained a groan then felt remarkably rude and I struggled to sit up.

'I do not wish to impose.'

Then what the Hell was he doing watching me sleep?

I was upset with myself again. I tried to make myself remember that he loved me, and that was the only reason he was doing this to me. He was just trying to make himself happy.

That didn't mean I had to like it!

'I'm sorry, Erik.' I heard myself murmuring. An odd look flashed through his dark eye-sockets. 'I mean about yesterday, when . . .' The look in his eyes told me he was daring me to say it. 'When . . . you know.'

Seeming slightly disappointed, Erik sighed and took my hand; I didn't try to stop him. 'You've nothing to apologise for. Believe it or not, that was not the worst thing ever to happen to me.'

I should have heard my mind screaming at me to not ask the next question. Perhaps I was still drowsy from the long night's sleep, but whatever possessed me to ask this, I should have realised I may come to regret it: 'How did it happen?'

His hand clenched then loosened around mine. It made me squirm uncomfortably. 'Forgive me.' he said, his tone as cold and awful as it had ever been. 'But you can ask me any other question – ask me about music, about the law, about history, about wine, about _love_, about . . . Shakespeare, about . . . _murder_ for Christ's sake! But _never_ ask _anything_ about my face. Am I _understood_?'

'Yeah, sure.' I replied quietly, crossing my arms. I was definitely disturbed by that statement.

'Good.' his voice softened and his thin finger traced my jawbone so he tilted my chin up and I was looking into the mask. Somehow the curiosity was taking over again; I wanted another look at his face. Morbid, selfish and childish, I know, but it was the truth. 'Now, get up. I have a gift for you.'

That caught me off guard. With catlike grace, Erik floated from the room and I rose sluggishly from bed, not tired physically but getting sick of . . . of him. And I wondered what was wrong with me to think that? I tried to chant in my head: _He loves you, he loves you, he loves you_ but it seemed it didn't have the same effect as the day before when my hands were literally stained with his blood.

I plodded out to the music room where Erik was sitting at the piano, seeming for once to have performance anxiety. Looking up at me, he said quietly: 'Erik was wrong. He feels terrible for . . . for yesterday.' Ah, so he couldn't bring himself to say it either! 'Sit.'

Feeling slightly too much like a dog, I obeyed and glanced at him, confused.

'Your forgiveness is all he wants. So he offers . . . this.'

He began to play, and looked almost with tenderness at the keys of the piano. He sang . . . wistfully. It was so graceful the way each syllable and note rolled off his tongue, and I listened in awe. The song was undoubtedly about love, yet I couldn't be repulsed _completely_ by the concept – Erik's love – when it sounded so intolerably perfect and beautiful. I felt his soul reaching out and I knew he only wanted me to love him – that was the reason he lived. That was hard to doubt, hearing him.

The mood of the song switched and suddenly it was melancholic and mournful, yet still beauteous. My eyes closed so that I may listen more intently and I almost felt like grieving as it drew to a close.

'You wrote that for me?' I asked incredulously.

'Yes.' came the simple reply.

'Uh . . . thanks.'

What can I say? I pride myself on my eloquence. I could tell that he poured his heart and soul into that song and _that_ was the response I came up with.

'I would do anything for you, my Christine.' he said, and I let my eyes drift lazily open. He was standing right in front of me, and offered me his hand. This time I felt I had to accept. 'And for you I have another gift. Not quite so . . . heartfelt, perhaps, but I think it is pretty in its own right. Come.'

I was led to the staircase that opened downstairs.

'Close your eyes.' Erik commanded. Submissively I obeyed and felt him carefully wrap an arm around me. 'I am making sure you don't fall and break your neck. It'd be a shame – such a pretty neck you have.'

I stiffened a little – wouldn't you? – and he carefully led me down the stairs. Then it was cold, and I heard the door open somewhere in front of me. We walked straight forward and I heard another door opened before the unmistakeable chill of the night in Melbourne. My brow furrowed – I got up from bed what must only have been an hour ago. Had I slept during the day? I was reminded sickeningly of the plight of Jonathan Harker. My own personal Dracula did not take my blood – rather, it seemed he fed off my happiness and my pity.

After going into the warmth of another building and up a few flights of stairs, then through a door into the cool night air again, I was instructed to open my eyes. They drifted open.

I gasped.

Often when passing the Princess' Theatre I had looked up at the roof and wondered what the view would be like.

Now I knew.

'Whoa.' I managed to breathe, looking out at the city street below. Across the bustling road, there seemed to be lights in the trees of the gardens. It was all beautiful, and I found myself wishing cruelly that my company could be the same.

'Look.' Erik said, a skeletal finger pointing out. 'Perhaps the most pitiful of opera houses in the world.'

Indeed, pointing up near Federation Square I saw the cruel farce of the Eiffel Tower atop the Arts Centre. As renowned in this country as Melbourne was for being the artistic capital, it was pitiful compared to London or New York or Paris. Five large theatres – as many as somebody could count on one hand! – were the extent of the theatrical experience in my city. How pathetic indeed.

'Simply say the word and you will be the most famous of singers, Christine.' Erik's vehement voice brought me from my thoughts. I looked into the dimly glowing eyes cautiously, seeing there all the hope and passion in the world. It made it worse that I would have to crush that hope.

'Your condition being?'

There was another of his colossal, heartrending sighs. 'I can give you nothing but music, and my love . . .' his eyes darkened. 'And we all know which of the two you'll accept.' he finished bitterly.

'So . . .' I clenched my fists which would be ineffectual should I choose to use them. But I couldn't – I could see he was in enough pain already. 'So, I'll be famous if I'm yours too.'

'Precisely.'

'What if I say no?'

It slipped out before I could even try to censor what I was saying.

He seemed burnt by this but after a second and a glance at the cityscape, Erik grabbed my hand. 'Time we went back in, don't you think?'

I felt a familiar needle-sharp pain in my side.

**xxxx**

Meg bolted into the room like an overzealous puppy, greeting Raoul with a kiss on the cheek and a broad grin.

'Let's go!'

He was knocked rather forcefully from his melancholic reverie. 'Huh?'

'Let's go to Christine's! She might just be sleeping last night off!'

Raoul looked at her incredulously. 'You were _really_ hammered beyond belief last night, weren't you?'

'Yup! Let's _go!_'

Her brightness gave him a headache as staring into the sun for too long might do. As he drove the path he'd travelled countless times before since he met her, Raoul felt ill-at-ease and the knot of worry and growing panic in his stomach deepened.

Meg noticed her friend's pensiveness. She could almost hear the ticking of thoughts in his head, and she simply stared out the window. She loved Christine like a sister, but there were times when they had been bitter rivals over parts in plays and other such things – like boys.

When they arrived, Raoul noticed Meg glancing at the bedroom door – Christine gave Raoul a house key – tentatively, occasionally adjusting her clothing as she did.

'What is it?' he asked her cautiously, and he noticed a knowing glance quickly replaced with a derisive snort.

'I don't know what you mean.' she said quietly.

'Meg.' he cautioned her with a hand on her shoulder. 'Tell me what you know.'

'I . . . know who might have Christine.'

'Oh, dear God! You've kept this from me? For _Christ's_ sake, Meg! Who is it? If you don't tell me, I'll-'

'Specteur!' she shouted above his voice, effectively silencing him.

He froze in bewilderment, unable to speak.

**xxxx**

Erik gave me a pleading look. 'And I would feel so . . . reconciled if you allowed me to . . . to . . . to.' he coughed and seemed content to finish his sentence there. I arched an eyebrow.

It would make him happy.

'C- close your eyes, and you won't even be able to acknowledge . . .'

I sighed and sank down on the bed, irritated. I heard a sharp intake of breath and clenched my eyes shut, even tighter. This was ridiculous, at least _I_ thought. But it was strange to see Erik's usual madness discarded in favour of this guarded timidity. He asked if I might possibly consider accepting – he had stammered the word out – a kiss, as a token of forgiveness and apology – a truce?

And so I was sitting against the pillows, waiting with an increasing knot of dread in my stomach for Erik to . . . I shudder even now at the thought . . . kiss me. I felt his hand on my shoulder and I restrained the cry of fear in my throat. Strangely, I found myself still partially convinced that he was going to kill me at any given second.

But then I felt his lips brush ever-so-carefully across the skin of my forehead.

It seemed his lips were as cold as his hands.

When I didn't resist – I fought back a cringe – the lips were there against my forehead again, definite and precise, but lingering. The hand on my shoulder moved to my neck and rested there, two long pianist fingers on my pulse. I was uncomfortable, yet felt something stirring in me – it wasn't really anything I could place; it didn't fall into the categories of affection, desire, or . . . hatred. It was simply . . . strange.

I felt a droplet of water fall onto my cheek and realised with a small degree of surprise that it was a tear. Slowly I felt him pull away and didn't open my eyes until I was certain he'd resumed his mask. Opening my eyes cautiously, I saw him wipe a tear from the corner of his dark eye.

'Thank you, _mon belle_, you've made me very happy.' he whispered. 'So happy in fact that I think I might have to let you go back . . . _home_.' he spat out the last word with derision, a sneer evident in his voice.

I sat up. 'It's the middle of the night . . . isn't it?'

'Yes, it is. I don't mean now. Rest awhile.'

He hummed something and his eye sockets were trained on me as I fell soundlessly into sleep.

**xxxx**

**Hello, hello, hello my lovelies!**

**So much has happened since last we spoke. My computer was wiped (that's BAD), I read Susan Kay's Phantom for the first time (that's . . . good) and I had the absolute and delightful honour of reading RachyBaby09's screenplay (that's EXCELLENT BEYOND COMPREHENSION!)**

**For the record for those of you who don't check my profile religiously (read: every single person reading this) I hated Luciana, Madeleine and Christine. They were all such bitches. I really, really, really agreed with Raoul's friend when he called her a cock-tease. I just hated them. A lot.**

**But enough about me. I am anxious to talk to people about their impressions of Kay now – for the record, I started crying when Sasha died!**

***insert review whore begging here***

**See you next time!**


	8. Theo, Yasmina and Days That Have Passed

**I have fought to churn out two chapters in two days for you, my faithful readers.**

**I hope that this is not quite so clichéd as I thought it was while writing! There are hints at back-stories at least.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

_The killer sets her down in her bed, feeling the blankets caress him gently as he shuffles from underneath them, looking at her carefully. He cannot ignore the way she blushed when his lips touched her forehead while she was awake earlier, nor can he forget the way she had not shied away._

_It reminded him inexorably and sickeningly of Yasmina._

_Oh, how he fights at night when he tries to sleep to keep the memories of silky, curvaceous, beautiful Yasmina away. He hates what happened – more than himself, in fact – because the darling coquette did not receive punishment apart from a good raping._

_He, however, had his livelihood and almost everything he loved and held dear torn away from him, permanently. He admits now that he was a vain, narcissistic little chap – rather like the Chagny boy – but his face was important. Why, if he still had those hawklike, sharp good looks, he would be on top of the world, instead of contenting himself with . . ._

_With, well, _this.

_He arrives at the warehouse behind the Princess' Theatre. On the door is the huge, detailed figure of his very own Angel of Darkness, next to which are written the words from Dante's Inferno: 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.'_

_He sidles through the door and looks at his architecturally beautiful house, set in the ugliness of an old, abandoned warehouse that many have forgotten about. His home wears a mask rather like he does with a black and forbidding guard that prevents scrutinising eyes from entering his abode. He walks up the stairs into the dark, beautiful second floor, and with a sigh flings off his mask, then his wig, then his jacket. His shoes follow and he looks at Christine's bed. It would look so much more appealing to him if her sleeping form occupied it, filling the room, his house and his life with her warmth and her happiness and her meaning. _

_He slips between the sheets and nuzzles the pillows almost fondly, inhaling her lingering scent and sighing with an undeniable sick pleasure as he hugs one of the pillows to his chest, imagining deep within the recesses of his brain, otherwise clogged with unspeakable crimes and plans for even more murder and theft and drug-dealing and fraud, that he is holding Christine as she sighs, content and satiated, after he shows her how much he loves her._

_The killer falls asleep with a rare content smile on his face._

**xxxx**

It was under unremarkable circumstances that I got back. I simply woke in my own bed, and thought nothing of it. I got up and made myself a pot of tea like my mother used to do when she was stressed. It was a more and more common occurrence about eight months before she died.

My little brother was to be called Theo. They tried to conceive a second child for so long, wishing not only to have another child to lavish their beautiful affection on, but also to give me a playmate. Stupid, though, because I was fifteen and occupied with my first boyfriend, Michael. They tried nevertheless, and painfully, eight months into pregnancy, my mother died, little Theo dying with her.

I remember Dad rushing me to the hospital from school (_It's no big deal, Chris, everything's going to be fine!_) and stumbling towards the maternity ward, arriving to find her not yet removed from her room, but hearing the blaring monotone of the heart monitor not picking up a beat. I also remember Dad clutching the blood-soaked blanket which held the blue, dead remains of my little brother.

With a shudder, I moved to the balcony of my house. Sliding down in the chair next to a small green plastic table, I poured a cup of tea and inhaled the sweet scent with a contented sigh, sipping the red-brown, hot liquid into my mouth and swallowing it calmly, finding with not a little horror that I missed Erik's constant attention and flattering love.

Annoyed, I downed the rest of the unsweetened tea and poured another cup, drinking it just as quickly but staring pensively into the dregs of the tea as I swirled them, bored. I tried to keep my mind off the way he wept when he thought I was asleep, and I remembered the night – or morning, who knows? – after I took off Erik's mask. When I had closed my eyes and steadied my breathing, I felt him curl up at the foot of the bed, by my feet, sighing. I felt his musical touch on my feet and after what must surely have been an hour I looked down to see he was staring in wide-eyed wonder at my feet under the blankets, occasionally running a finger down the contoured line, amazement evident in glowing eyes.

Broken from my reverie, I heard the phone ringing and raced inside to answer it.

'Hello?' I said, a languid tiredness overtaking me as I walked back out to watch the waking city and poured myself another cup of tea.

'_Christine!_' With happiness and surprise I recognised Dad's voice. '_It's Tuesday! Shouldn't you be at school?_'

Of course he called when he thought I was out of the house. _Parents!_ 'No, Papa, I have no classes today . . . my teacher's sick.'

'_Ah. Well, dear, I called because I was wondering if I could come and visit you, for Mamma's birthday!_'

Mamma Valerius – she was _supposed_ to be Mamma Daaé but in elderly defiance after her husband, my father's father, died, she reverted to her maiden name – was a fat, kind old woman whose grey-haired happiness always found a way to make me smile, even on the bleakest of days. She made it her mission to stem the tears that flowed from my eyes like blood from the cut of a jugular vein at Mum and Theo's joint funeral. And she succeeded, telling me that one day, an elephant with pink wings was going to fly into a funeral and ruin the lovely brooding, depressive atmosphere.

I had to laugh at that.

'How old is she now, Dad?' I said with a snort. 'Eight hundred and sixty four?'

Usually I wasn't so embittered – about anything – but that morning I was particularly testy. I assumed that my father was silently putting it down to PMS. '_No, dear, seventy six. But she wants to see you! And I can meet the boy I've heard nothing about!_'

'What? What boy?' I felt my face flushing.

'_I was informed of your little absence, my angel, and I do not approve!_'

'D- Dad!' I exclaimed, my fist clenching around the phone. I took a sip of tea and let the mellow citrusy flavour calm me before I continued. 'Raoul called you?'

'_If Raoul is that courteous little de Chagny lad, then yes, Raoul . . . _called_ me. Informed me that apparently you were abducted by his Law teacher, and I thought the poor little fellow was mad._'

In the preceding days I had forgotten about cold, harsh, mean Mr Specteur and I had known only tender, worried, confusing, confused, hungering, genius, begging, angry, sad Erik. I nodded, though he couldn't see it. 'No, Dad, I can assure you of his sanity. Studying to be a lawyer over at . . . Chagny Industries.'

'_That big stock-broking firm? Well, well, well! My baby is a gold-digger!_'

'Dad!' I chided with a groan. 'I'm not. We met on the first day of uni.'

'_Right, girl, whatever keeps you warm at night! I'm telling you, you must enlighten me as to where you've been the past couple of days. That boy was worried absolutely sick when he called, telling me I had to come down and see you – so, how about if Mamma and I get there in about . . ._' I heard a knock at the door. '_Three seconds?_'

Of course my father, who thrived on spontaneity, was at the door with my grandmother lagging behind, hauling luggage up the staircase, refusing to use the elevator because they were "death-traps on pulleys" and she wanted no part in it.

Receiving them warmly, I ushered them in. I silently thanked God that I at least had a spare bedroom and I moved into it to remove my few suitcases of things I had never unpacked since I moved in, and I put them into the tiny room next door that was advertised as a study, but barely fit my schoolbooks, desk and laptop. I was worried about Dad grilling me with questions – what was I supposed to say?'

'So, when do I meet the boy that claimed to so completely hold my little angel's affections?' Dad asked as I emerged. I blushed. It'd been days since I had seen Raoul! Suddenly seizing the phone, I dialled the number and ran out to the balcony.

'_Hello?_'

'Raoul?'

'_Christine?_'

'Raoul!'

'_Christine!_'

As previously stated, my eloquence in times of great emotion is truly something to behold.

'Um . . . I'm back.'

'_From _where_?_' Raoul demanded hotly, with a barely detectable note of anger in his voice. '_Where've you been, Christine, and who with? Was it Specteur? What did the bastard do to you? If he even thought of going near you like that I will kill him!_' A knot of dread sank down my throat and settled in my stomach like a big pill.

'I can't tell you that – or anything – right now.' I paused and sighed, eager for a change of subject. 'But . . . my dad and my grandmother are at my house. They're asking to meet you.'

I heard a small laugh. '_Finally worked up the courage to tell your old man about me – us – have you?_'

'You know perfectly well who took that honour from me, darling.' I replied dryly.

'_Yeah, fair enough. I'll be there soon. I love you _so_ much, Christine Daaé, I promise you will never leave my sight for that long again!_'

He hung up without waiting for a reply.

All of a sudden it seemed like a daunting task to return the sentiment.

I wish I could regale you with the awkward tale of my father and my boyfriend coming face to face for the first time. But, unfortunately for those seeking comedy, they were perfectly civil, and got along well. I know, that's bland as white bread. But it is the truth, and that's all I will endeavour to tell you.

We sat on the couch, Raoul holding me tightly in a comfortable embrace, and Dad smiled.

'I can't deny that with this boy you positively glow. Unlike that other one . . .' his head lolled as he pretended to fight to remember the name. 'Ah, yes, Shannen! That was the boy's name, wasn't it?'

Raoul gave me an amused wink. 'Who's Shannen, Mr Daaé?'

'It's Gustav! Her second boyfriend. I hated that boy, I cannot lie. The way he looked at her . . . you look upon my girl with respect.'

He looked up from my hair in which his hands were buried, running fingers through the brown masses carefully and fondly. 'I love her . . . Mr Daaé.'

'Gustav, m'boy.' Dad laughed as Mamma walked into the room with a cake she made as soon as she walked in the door.

I smiled and leaned against Raoul, comfortable and home at last.

**xxxx**

_The killer wakes in a daze, thinking for a fleeting moment of happiness that he is in bed with her – the illusion melts like frost under sunlight, and he gives a sigh, burying his face in the masses of pillows and blankets that surround him. He has not yet defiled the bed with his own scent – a mixture of wine, cologne and death – and he inhales her beautiful smell again as if hungry for it, as if it provides satisfaction._

_Which it does._

_He feels a languorous lethargy overtake him and he suddenly realises he never wants to get up from this comfortable purgatory where he is free from his thoughts, if only for a few moments. He can almost feel the unconscious warm caress of her hair across his unmasked face, and he is suddenly seized with the urge to curse. He does the next best thing. Armed with a pen and a sheaf of paper, he fairly runs to the organ and slides down, belting out terrible, horrible music that would hurt anyone foolhardy enough to try and listen._

_His fists clench, making him unable to play anymore, and seized with another violent emotion, he throws himself back on Christine's bed, sobbing like a child into the sheets, letting his tears stain the sweetly scented pillows. Such a maelstrom of emotion . . ._

_He allows his dead eyes to drift to the clock – she only left a half hour ago._

**xxxx**

**I would ask people that like what I write (which I hope dearly is all of you) to go read "They Killed My Sasha", which is my first Kay-based fic. Self-plugging FTW.**

**My review beg today is dedicated wholly to MoonlightDutchess: *gets on knees as a scantily clad fat lady (think Carlotta) with a clown-mask amount of makeup on* Review! Review, **_**please**_**! I **_**need**_** it! I'll do ANYTHING!**

**Also, review if you know who Tom Baker is.**

**See you next time!**


	9. He's Just A Little Eccentric

Inspiration can be a dangerous thing when wielded correctly.

I am not generally one to write songs. But the night after I returned, I was kind of angry. I sat down at the piano (in my house you could hardly call it that; it was a seven-octave electric keyboard) and began thinking, playing random chords. I liked the sound of D – it had potential, and character, and it was warm.

So I began to write a song, high and pretty, but with lyrics that I don't care to record. Let's just say there were angry lyrics that mentioned several distasteful insults and a certain Law teacher's name. My feelings towards him had somewhat changed a lot over the course of the day – perhaps that had something to do with the way Raoul and my father were badmouthing the kidnapper they didn't even know the identity of.

My father walked into the room at the sound of the song and he smiled. 'You _are_ going to tell me where you've been the past few days, aren't you?' he said over the music.

I hit a discord.

'No, Dad, I'm not.'

Somehow I thought Erik wouldn't be too pleased with me if I let my father know about him.

'I'm worried for you.'

Since the death of Theo and my mother, my father had become fiercely protective of me. He didn't call as often as you would expect, but usually when he did it was questions, questions, questions.

'I'm okay, Dad.'

He looked at me cautiously and closed the door, leaning against it. 'Christine, is it a man?'

I nodded shamefully. For some reason I was upset by this tiny confession, which already seemed a given in the situation. Yet my dad's flashing eyes – with emotion and intense anger, something shockingly out of character for the cool-headed Gustav Daaé – made me ashamed of myself . . . for what? For being kidnapped by a madman . . .

_Who would do anything for you_.

I was seriously considering choking the voice in my head.

'Tell me his name.'

'No.'

'Chris_tine_.' he growled. It was that warning tone that parents used when you'd done something wrong – I was still trying to figure out how I was at fault in this situation.

'Dad, he'd . . . he . . . he's a kidnapper. He would not . . . I can't.'

At my unintelligible stuttering, Dad raised an eyebrow, another fiercely uncharacteristic action. 'It's my duty as your father to protect you. Tell me this man's name.'

I stood from my place at the keyboard and crossed my arms. 'That's _my_ business, Dad, not yours.'

Okay, _maybe_ I was acting a little more petulantly than I could have, but I was scared of what was going to happen if Erik found out I had betrayed him in that way. He had proven himself as a gentle, fawning devotee to me, but I was still unnerved – the whole incident when I took off his mask showed fiery anger. I was terrified to think what would happen if my dad tried to attack him.

I knew who'd come out victorious in _that_ fight.

'Hmm,' Dad grumbled in disapproval. 'You know you can tell me anything . . .'

'But I choose to tell you nothing, and that's how it will stay.'

Angrily, I pushed past him and towards my bedroom. But Mamma said my name and I stared at her. 'Come talk to me, dearie.' she said innocently. I groaned and moved to the dining room then slid down across from her. 'Now, there's something you're hiding from your dear father.'

'Yeah.' I conceded quietly.

'You can tell dear Mamma, can't you?'

'Mamma,' I said with a sigh as she clutched my hands in her own pudgy fingers. 'It's a very complicated situation.'

'Did this man . . . attempt . . . any unwelcome liberties?'

'No!' I nearly shouted. Such a thought, despite the fact that the absence of his company was an empty-ish, disappointing feeling, I didn't think I would ever consider Erik in that sort of light – ambient bedroom lighting, that is. I shuddered. 'No . . . he'd never do that. He's not a bad person . . . he's just a little . . .' _Bat-shit crazy! Completely off his rocker! Insane! _'Eccentric.'

'Hmm . . .' said Mamma, pensively. She looked at my hands, turning them and running her thumbs over my palms and fingers. 'You know, I fell in love with your grandfather when I was eighteen. We were in France, you know, in Normandy, where I grew up. Perros-Guirec in fact. He was a fisherman. He was on a pier, and I was just walking with my little sister, Seraphine. And there the man was, Theodor Daaé.'

'So, what, you just started speaking to him?' I raised an eyebrow. Mamma had this habit of making an obscure point with a long story.

'No, no. It was the twenties in France, dear.' she smiled and continued to run her thumbs along my hands fondly. 'But Seraphine wanted to swim. The poor dear was eight then. Mm, I remember it . . . Theodor seeing her, and nearly running to the water. I was helpless . . . so helpless . . .' she chuckled. 'I was a pretty little thing like you, like a wilting flower. Dear man saved my sister, and I gave him a kiss.'

'What? Mamma, I thought . . . she . . . she died.' I said carefully.

'She did, _ma petite_. Two weeks later from her death of cold, like my Maman said. Told the silly girl not to swim . . . but this isn't what I am trying to tell you, love.' There was a pregnant pause, and she stared at me. 'I didn't know of your grandfather's affections until I was twenty.'

To be honest, this made no sense to me. Even if I tried I couldn't apply what she was saying to Erik . . . Raoul, maybe . . .

'And I found out because he asked me to marry him outright. "No beating around the bush," he said. My lovely Theodor.'

She sighed at the memory of my long deceased grandfather.

'So . . .'

'All I'm saying is if a man loves you enough to take you from everything to give himself a chance, surely he's worth consideration.'

Sometimes I thought my grandmother was psychic. I didn't tell her anything. Did I? I tried to review what I had said after I said it. Nothing seemed to hint at Erik . . . God, what if he was listening?

'Thanks for the thought, Mamma . . . _bonne nuit_.'

'Sleep well, Christine.' Mamma replied, chuckling quietly to herself.

I heard my father playing the Moonlight Sonata as I slipped into bed that night.

And I cried myself to sleep.

**xxxx**

_The killer hates himself, but he's never had such violent withdrawal symptoms for anything, and he's tried almost every drug there is. As he sinks down on the floor, there is a flood of relief as he sees she is, for one thing, alone, and for another, unharmed._

'_The world will hurt you, my darling.' he whispers, leaning closer to see her. He places his hand either side of her face and draws her head up a little. She is so peacefully beautiful, and he removes one hand from her warm porcelain skin to take off his mask, seemingly a ritual when she's asleep. He presses a kiss to her forehead and both her cheeks, revelling in the sensation and unashamedly lingering on the same place he kissed when she was awake._

'_You let me kiss you!' he hisses, a little more menacing than intended. After all, he cannot wake her houseguests, now can he? He lets the same dreadful melancholy he usually feels take him over and takes a sobering breath, leaning his forehead against hers._

'_I'm sorry.' he whispers. 'I am sorry I'm not all I am supposed to be . . . if I was, would you love me?'_

_She turns in her sleep and he lets her go from his grasp. He'll never let her go from him, _figuratively, _but he can't force an embrace. It seems so wrong. Nothing will ever make him force her or hurt her, no matter how much he wants her – and God, it's an aching, primal need. For years and years he forgot all about the prospect of love._

_She _is_ asleep._

_No! He is aghast! How could he even consider such a vile, disgusting thing?_

_Like _this_, whispers a voice deep in his head, look, she's so defenceless . . ._

'_No!' he hisses at the voice – oh, the trials and tribulations of madness._

'_Your father is here, I notice . . .' he whispers. 'And that fat old woman – knowing you, dear, it's not your mother. You call her "Mamma", though . . . not like "Madaar". That's what dear Yasmina called her mother . . . Yasmina wasn't as beautiful as you . . . none of the women I ever had were as beautiful as you. You, Christine Daaé, are the _exception_.'_

_She shifts in her sleep and with a saddened moan, the killer stands. A shock of hatred courses through him like a bolt of lightning and he goes down the hall to the spare bedroom where her father is sleeping. His name is Gustav; he remembers hearing it in conversation earlier in the evening when he sat listening. The killer stares at the weathered but serene face. The man has seen grief and horror in his time, perhaps, though nothing rivalling the killer. He leans forward and whispers, almost conspiratorially:_

'_Get in my way, old man, and I will kill you.'_

_The man snores and the killer chuckles meanly, going back to Christine's room to resume his mask. He slips out the window with voices in his head as loud as they've ever been. He has the sudden urge to compose._

_He is aware, after a few blocks, of a presence. He spins, prepared to kill his tail, only to see a black alley cat following him. The cat continues forth until it is at his side. It miaows at him, and he raises an eyebrow._

'_What do you want?' he asks quietly, glancing nervously up the street. Nobody is about at five in the morning._

_The cat rubs against his legs with a possessive air about it._

_He narrows his eyes at it. 'Odd little thing.' he says softly before continuing, making no effort to deter the feline from following him._

_When he arrives home he feels it behind him._

'_Hmm, I'll get rid of you!' the killer states bitterly, leaving the door open for the cat to escape, and ripping off his mask, making a point of twisting his face into a particularly contorted, ugly expression._

_The cat sits there benignly, licking its paw._

'_Uh . . . _boo_ . . .'_

_It mews._

_He growls but makes no move to get it out. It can stand his face, and that gives him the oddest sense of comfort. He walks up the stairs and the black cat follows him. He thinks on that – to everyone else, black cats are unlucky, signs of ill omen and bad fortune._

_But he is not like everyone else._

_He is different, and his cat will be different to. He likes the sound of owning something._

'_Come along, pet.' he says quietly, leading it down the hall to the kitchen. He thinks that he must make a proper meal for Christine, and sit with her, and listen to her heavenly voice as she talks to him. Oh, how he longs for that simple pleasure! Nobody else knows what it's like to feel so empty and alone. He hates this, his wretched life, his painful existence._

_He wants Christine . . . true, ideally he would have every part of her, body, soul, heart, mind and spirit, but he knows somewhere deep inside that that can't be, so instead he wishes she would give him the courtesy of a smile, the joy of her company. She doesn't realise, the killer thinks, the happiness she brings. It is true that she also brings him the deepest despair, the blackest rage, the worst jealousy. As he sees it, nobody should be able to talk to her but him. Otherwise, who knows what might happen? It's bad enough that the Chagny boy even talks to her, let alone embraces her, kisses her . . ._

_He decides he'll make a meal for her, and perhaps orchestrate it romantically, like he is capable. A smile tugs at his lips and the corners quirk upwards just slightly as he thinks about everything he can pamper her with._

_He spent time in Paris; he knows a thing or two about cooking._

_Yes, it will be a lovely dinner, and she'll enjoy herself._

_He groans as he realises the problem of – what else, indeed? – the mask. He can't eat with her – like she would ever allow a worthless dog to sit with her while she eats . . . His hand drifts to the cat at his side. It purrs and shivers as he runs his deft fingers down its spine, and he laughs derisively. At least there's one being glad of his touch._

_The killer's mind is driven inexorably back to the kiss Christine allowed him, and thus to Yasmina. Damn it, he hates every second his thoughts are occupied by that _bitch_, but he simply cannot help remembering his last female and indeed human encounter as something more than a teacher, or the bane of someone's existence, or . . . he growls . . . a _stalker.

_He sets about planning the dinner with the cat sitting at the table, not even seeming fazed by his face._

_He smiles._

**xxxx**

**Mm, I have this awful habit of ending the sections and chapters with Erik smiling. Kinda creepy, I know. But my homage to Kay in this story is the cat – though it will not be called Ayesha and it's not Siamese . . .**

**Anyway, my lovelies, I am going on Multimedia Camp for the next three days – in essence, that means that I will certainly not be able to upload in that time, even if I do manage to get another chapter written.**

**So I have two things. **

**First, I have seventeen subscribers with an average of five reviews per chapter . . . **_**please**_** leave me a gift for when I get back from camp? It will be so excellent!**

**Secondly, I think you should ALL go and read EmmanuelleG's **_**Monsieur**_**. It's a wonderful story, portraying Erik in a deliciously dark way. It's actually so worth it that it doesn't even need its author to ask for me to plug it – I just do! So read it. **

**Roses for reviewers!**

**I'm off to pack for camp. **_**À demain**_**.**


	10. Of A Certain Engagement Ring

**I own nothing.**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

The next day Dad woke me at eleven – as much as I would like to deny it, I sleep late when I can – and told me to get dressed. I asked him why, and he responded simply: 'I'm taking you to the police. I thought a lot about it, and I think you're in danger. You're an impressionable girl. I don't want you hurt, and I called the station last night. So get dressed. Mamma made breakfast.'

Now, I had a lot to consider and little time to do it – and this was the moment the line blurred. This moment was when I stopped defending Erik out of fear for myself, and started doing it out of fear for him. I didn't and still don't know why – as I said, I knew his anger was fiery. I knew he could hurt anyone and wouldn't surrender to the law he taught without a big long fight where he'd protect himself with terrifying logic and miles of red tape.

'No.' I said softly. Dad turned and stared at me.

'I wasn't asking, Christine Daaé! I was _telling_ you to get up – _now_.'

'No.' I repeated. He glared and advanced – my dad was never a threatening person, so of course this was terrifying – then repeated himself.

'Get. Up.'

It reminded me of the time before I knew Erik as Erik when he commanded Raoul and I to get out of his classroom – oddly, I almost smiled at the memory.

Hold on, that didn't make sense!

I was _smiling_ at a memory of the kidnapping bastard who stalked me and did God only knew what in my bedroom while I was sleeping? What?

'They can't make me say anything.' I replied, to my own surprise and Dad's obvious annoyance.

'No, but I can. I am just trying to protect you.' he softened a little and sympathy told me I would give in when he said: 'I can't lose another member of my family. It's only you and Mamma for me now. We have to stick together.'

I sighed sadly. 'Okay, Dad. Just . . . don't . . .' I groaned at the look on his face. 'Never mind then.'

Dad walked wordlessly out of the room, and I got up, begrudgingly, a little angry at a lot of things. I was confused. I had no reason to defend that kidnapping bastard. Right?

I dressed slowly trying to think about Raoul. I missed him, and I wish I could say he'd been supportive. But he wasn't. When I wasn't being light-heartedly chided on my terrible choice in boys the night before it had been a barrage of questions about where I had been, who I was with, and why hadn't I called?

It was all very frustrating; I can assure you of that.

Suddenly I heard a _thud_, the sound of something falling heavily to the ground, and a moment later the sound was repeated. Terrified, my hand flew to my mouth. What was going on? I looked for a place to hide but I completely froze as a familiar figure clad totally in black walked gracefully and calmly into the room. Before I could even attempt to move, both my wrists were grabbed easily by long, thin but painfully strong fingers.

'Good morning, my darling.' he murmured. I must say, he never looked so terrifying than when he was perfectly, _deadly_ calm. 'You slept well, I trust?'

My voice trembled and I stuttered. 'W- w- where is . . . is Dad?'

'Calm down, my dear, or your heart will stop! Oh, as much as I would love a beautiful dead bride of my own, I don't want you to just drop dead here!' Despite the situation, he chuckled. I looked at my wall in the direction of the _thud_s.

'Don't worry. They'll wake up soon enough. Now, you can come with me willingly, or you can be like them.' he pulled a needle from inside his black coat. It wasn't a syringe; it was like a knitting needle but thinner.

'I will never come with you willingly.' I said, my voice suddenly cold and harsh.

'Then I will never give you the option.'

And he drove the needle into my side.

**xxxx**

Raoul nervously waited. Damn, he hated himself for bringing other people into this mess, whatever it was. He just wanted Christine to give him a straight answer about where she'd been, but it seemed that was frankly impossible. He loved her and he was scared for her. He fingered the ring that was clasped in his hand. Decisions, questions, answers . . .

_Answers_.

He wondered whether she'd accept. He was going to ask the day after if she would ever consider marrying him. It was for protection as well. Whatever stalker it was that had imprisoned her might be slightly deterred by an angry husband.

'Hello, Mr de Chagny.' said a voice. He looked up with very little relief into the face of a man that looked Arabian and seemed to be in his late forties.

'It's Raoul. I assume you're Rasheed.' he replied curtly.

'At your service, my young friend.' the older man bowed.

Raoul extended his hand and Rasheed shook it. 'So, you . . . you're one of Er- _Mr Specteur_'s students, are you? And he's obsessed with your girlfriend. That's unfortunate.'

'You're telling me! So it _is_ him?'

'I suspect you knew that all along.' Rasheed sank down in his chair across the table from Raoul as he spoke. They were at a small café in an alley where not many people went. The only other person was the cook in the kitchen, but they were outside. 'Sorry in advance, but unless worst comes to worst, I can't very well show you where they are.'

'You _know_?' Raoul exclaimed, making the cook look up from the sink he was occupied at. Rasheed shot him a brief smile and glanced back at the young boy. He was impetuous and could probably do something very stupid and idiotic given the opportunity.

'Yes. Before he . . .' Rasheed took a deep breath and gestured haphazardly to his own face. 'Before _that_, he was a dear friend to me. He's changed a lot these past twenty years.'

'Hold on. Twenty years? How old was he when . . . ?'

'He's a university professor, my lad. How old did you think he was? Were you comforting yourself with the thought that he might be your age, no more than five years older or so?' the Arabian man smirked. 'Ridiculous. He's only a few years younger than me. You're a fool, my boy.'

Raoul angrily sipped his coffee.

**xxxx**

I woke in the music room on a sofa with Erik playing something on a violin. As much as I expected to hear something breathtakingly complicated, a simple lullaby drifted to my ears as I sat up groggily, at first at peace.

Then I swiftly remembered the matter of the twin _thud_s in my house. I stood up slowly and the violin was placed back in its case on an old table next to the masked man and he looked at me steadily.

'What the _Hell_ did you do to my father?'

'I drugged him.'

How could he treat all these terrible things so bloody naturally?

'Is he okay?' I asked with mounting concern.

'Most likely.'

Suddenly I was distracted by a hiss. I twirled to see a black cat standing in the doorway, back arched, bristling. Its eyes matched Erik's in the semi-darkness – yellow and glowing – and I felt sick, as if both the morbid creatures were conspiring against me.

Damn it.

'Hello, my darling!' Erik greeted warmly, walking fluidly over to the cat and kneeling in front of it. Its posture relaxed and as he petted it, it purred and arched into his touch. 'She's very pretty, isn't she?' I honestly didn't know if he was speaking to me or the animal.

He glanced up at me. 'I thought Shadow was an apt name,' he said quietly, as if he hadn't admitted to drugging my father just a moment before. 'She's an outcast, like Erik . . . misunderstood.'

'Uh-huh. You hid her last time?'

'No. She followed me . . . yesterday.'

This was strange. I had never _– ever – _been engaged in regular conversation with him, and now we were talking about a cat that eyed me suspiciously from across the room. If he'd gotten it the day before I didn't have even the faintest idea how it had already grown so attached to him, but I didn't think it liked me.

'Christine, you've slept for quite a few hours. I must adjust the drug, or you may get sick. But you're hungry, yes?'

I nodded dumbly.

'Come,' he said, his eyes flashing with that same golden fire, some kind of sickening mischief evident in his tone. 'Eat.'

**xxxx**

To say that I was terrified would most likely turn out to be one of the biggest understatements of the century.

Erik was kneeling before me – _on one knee!_ – with a small silver ring adorned with a black jewel in his hand. I looked away in a pathetic attempt to gather myself as he grabbed my own hand and with my spare one I grabbed my glass of wine and downed the contents, looking longingly at the bottle nearby. I heard a pitiful sigh.

'Let me kiss your hand.' he whispered, with an undercurrent of violence and pent-up rage. He lifted the mask and pressed his lips repeatedly to my hand then slipped the ring onto my fourth finger and kissed that. 'Let me be your husband.'

Wait.

What?

It was then I noticed that he was holding my left hand.

Crap.

'Wha- I- Er- I- NO!'

'Don't say that.' he said as if losing patience. I froze. His voice was making the middle of the ocean at night in a storm sound like a warm paradise. 'Listen: you remember when I played the Moonlight Sonata. Yes, I see your eyes. You do.' he paused and there was a sadistic smile in his eyes. 'You remember the trance that I threw you into. You want to live that way, don't you?'

I stared at him. 'I'm not marrying you. How could you even think that I would ever . . .'

'Silence.'

'Erik, no! No! I would never . . .'

'Darling, you're putting yourself in danger. I suggest you listen.'

I sat up a little straighter, irritated that the wine had yet to take effect.

'Good girl. Now, this is my proposition: Erik is not asking for your hand, yet. However, he gives you this ring as a gift. It will keep you safe, while you wear it. But when you take it off, you may as well be dead. Do you understand?'

'Y- yeah.'

'Good.' he brightened a little and returned to his seat, swirling his half-filled wineglass casually. 'See? Erik has the potential for being happy too. He just needs Christine.'

I sighed and reached for the bottle of wine. I knew I would probably have an aching headache in the morning, but _Hell_ I needed to get pissed and quickly. No, I did not realise at that moment how vulnerable that would make me.

'You don't love me.' I said after another glass of wine.

Erik looked up, shocked, his eyes changing shape; they were narrowed at me. 'You haven't any right to say that.'

'You _don't_.' I insisted, lazily playing with my knife. It seemed so benign and useless, with the remnants of food on its blade. But it could so easily be used to harm someone, and be tarnished with blood instead . . . 'You're obsessed.'

'Shut up.' he barked, getting up and moving closer to me. 'I know you better than anybody does. I know that your favourite number is forty-two because your mother loved Douglas Adams and you loved listening to her read. I know your favourite colour is red because it's vibrant and flamboyant and it's big and people notice it – and you _want_ that.' he was saying the most pointless, trivial things and making them sound deep and philosophical. Coming from his mouth, they sounded exactly that.

'And you like to sing loudly, when you think you're alone! And you're joyous and beauti-' he caught himself there and paused, collecting himself a little and sitting down. 'You are happy then. And you've eaten ice-cream with a fork.'

I couldn't help but crack a smile, which fell when I realised how intently he must have been watching me.

'And I know that somewhere deep inside yourself you know that there's a reason that at this moment you're not screaming bloody murder and trying to attack me with that knife. You know there's a reason you're not sitting in your room, sobbing and refusing to even look at me. There's a reason you're wearing this ring, and it's something other than fear.'

I gulped and simply stared at him with absolute terror in my heart.

And the terror was there because he was right.

**xxxx**

**Before you say anything, I **_**know**_** that some of the characters have been acting a little strangely. It'll be explained. Eventually.**

**Tell me how much you've missed me! **

**So, you guys. We made a video and youtubed it! If you do ask for the URL, etc (feel free to!), I should tell you in advance that that's not the only video we made on camp. If it was, that'd be uber depressing. **

**And also, it is set to a rap song, with sexual . . . **_**connotations**_**. Squeamish, don't ask. But we krump pretty well . . .**

**See you next time.**

**(Hey, don't flame me! I pushed this chapter out in about two hours so I could give you guys an update! Sorry if it's crappy. Reassure me?)**


	11. Promise Me, Christine

**Hello again! Been a while, I know. Look at the bottom notes. After you've read the chapter.**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

I was still in Erik's house and he was rather unashamedly sitting cross-legged on the bed with his hand in my hair, lovingly running his fingers through it. I groaned and rolled away from him.

'Are you alright?' he asked solemnly. I shot an angry glance at him.

'You're on my bed.'

'Ah, I _was_ right.'

The night before, when I had overcome my horrified stupor, I had denied his claims tooth and nail until he told me, rather flatly, that it was true, and I had better go to bed. I had obeyed, only because I was frankly scared to argue it further. I didn't know what exactly was drawing me back to him, but I knew it was something. And that something was going to hurt me, I _knew_.

I sat up. 'What are you talking about?'

'You call it _your_ bed. You don't have to. You know that you belong here.'

He was watching me with a sick sort of fascination and when I turned away, he pulled my face back. The lights were dim and his eyes burned faintly. 'I will tell you how to get out of here if, and _only_ if,' he lifted my hand to false lips. 'You _promise_ to come back of your own accord.'

'Okay. Fine. Just let me go home.'

He leaned over me, terrifyingly close, and the soft material of the mask brushed my ear. I shuddered. 'This is your home.'

'Don't-'

He pressed a long, thin finger to my lips. 'Shh, darling. Not a word.'

I gulped as his finger traced the lines of my face and I closed my eyes.

It was no longer to avoid the situation.

'I'll take you back.' he whispered, still at my ear.

He rose languidly from the bed as if he'd slept there. Oh, dear Lord, what if he had?

An hour later, he was back in my room with his regular pristine black suit when earlier it had looked crumpled. He looked at me, his posture perfect and businesslike. I bit my lip and I heard him inhale sharply. 'You will not resist me. I shall do exactly as I choose. And if you resist I will drag you straight back here, and I will never allow you to leave – ever. Do you follow?'

I nodded.

He seemed to brighten. 'Good. Come here.'

I obeyed and he lowered his head in respect. I stood there stiffly, uncertain of what was going to happen. Slowly Erik lifted a trembling hand and rested it on my shoulder. He looked up at me with tearful eyes. I gulped. 'Don't push me away.' he said, stepping closer. My arms stayed glued to my sides. 'Promise you'll come back.'

'I already-'

'Do it again . . . _please_.'

I sighed deeply. 'I promise I'll come back.'

'Oh, Christine, you do not understand.' he ran his fingers down my arm very slowly and grasped my hand. 'I don't want you to go.'

I stayed silent, completely at a loss.

'I adore you. I need you.' he said as if mourning someone.

A few long, agonising moments later, he led me out of the room, and I was suddenly aware of the fact that I'd been alone with him for a lot longer than was advisable. But the bastard had probably planned it. We walked from his house into . . . a . . . warehouse. It was huge and empty, except for the huge Gothic house that reminded me of the old Victorian buildings in the city. I gasped.

'Quite amazing, isn't it? Erik's house wears a mask, like he does!'

'Yeah.' I rasped. He opened a side door and waited for me to walk through, letting go of my hand for a moment. I probably should have run for my life. I should have raced to the police and told them that I was being held captive by a madman, a stalker, possibly a murderer . . .

My thoughts froze there. He'd kill _me_.

'You see? It's not so hard to please someone who has nothing.' he said and brought his arm around my waist. I felt uncomfortable as he pulled me closer to himself. I clenched my fists.

'You're tense. Pay attention; I won't show you twice.'

And he led me through the streets. Occasionally someone would give him a second glance and I prayed that they'd ask what was going on. But he walked so confidently and held me so . . . _intimately_ that nobody really batted an eyelid.

We arrived at the end of my street. 'I trust you.' he said quietly. 'But if you break that trust you will pay dearly.' he paused and his pale hand reached and rested against my cheek. 'I don't want to hurt you.' There was a deathly pause, one that I had come to know only too well in recent weeks. 'But I may be forced to.'

His voice was so tender, gentle, _reassuring_, but his words chilled me to the bone. He glanced up the street. 'Come back tomorrow night.'

'I will.' I said mechanically, in shock.

'Good girl.' he said softly, hesitantly letting go of my hand. 'You shan't be disappointed. Now go.'

I turned and walked – it seemed like they were my first steps – toward my building. Dad and Mamma would be waiting for me. Everything would turn out okay. I glanced back and was oddly surprised to see Erik still standing there, watching me; I had half-expected him to be gone at my second glance. His eyes were mournful when they met mine and I almost felt the desire to console him.

Hold on, _what_?

I walked back into the house, completely unprepared for the sight that met my eyes.

Mamma was sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a picture of Dad and sobbing, 'Oh, Gustav, my Gustav, my baby!'

Oh, God.

My stomach sank to the ground with what I almost thought was an audible thud, and a knot of dread settled itself in my throat.

'Mamma!' I cried worriedly. She looked up with tear-reddened eyes and she sniffled, wiping them away. 'Mamma, what's going on?'

'Come here, my child.'

I obeyed stiffly. What the Hell was going on? Where was my father? Where was my dad? I collapsed at the table and Mamma brought me into her pillowy arms. 'He . . . there was . . . _evil_. Evil.'

What had Erik done?

'Mamma?' I asked, melting into the old woman's embrace like a child as she stroked my hair. 'What's happening?'

'Your Papa is in hospital. He collapsed yesterday morning. Something was wrong with his lungs. He's very, very sick, Christine. Doctors are saying . . . saying that . . . oh, my poor Gustav!'

Erik did that. Erik drugged my father and something had happened to him. It was Erik's fault. If Dad died, I had Erik to blame. Bastard, bastard, _bastard!_

She sobbed and, scared, I began to cry too. The only thought on my mind was my father. He had been everything to me, my whole life, and now he might be gone.

**xxxx**

_Perhaps, the killer thinks, he's been a little less human than he might have been capable of. He has been a little cruel to her, and threatened her – but this is coupled with the dreadful realisation that should she ever leave, he'll die._

_He walks slowly into the hospital. He will right what he can. He goes to the desk. 'I'm here to see Gustav Daaé.' he says carefully. The all-too bright nurse – a few short weeks ago he'd gladly have snapped her neck – smiles and types the name into an old, loud computer._

'_Room 42B.' she says with a wink. He nods and moves towards the lift. Room 42B. He remembers how he first came to know that first little idiosyncrasy of hers – her favourite number. He was walking behind her and – his fists tighten – de Chagny. It was before they entered the relationship that completely ruined the killer's life, but after he became what he is. They were chatting oh-so-innocently, completely unaware of his presence._

'_Do you ever wonder, Raoul?' asked her sweet voice. Carefree, innocent, not the dead woman he's turning her into, slowly but surely._

'_About what, Chrissie?' he remembers frowning at this. Her name is and was Christine, and that's what she should be known as, and referred to as. _

'_Life, the universe and everything?' she smirked._

_The boy sighed theatrically. 'You're into Douglas Adams then?'_

_She had smiled broadly, her laughter tumbling freely. 'Forty-two's my favourite number. My mother – before she died – used to read his books to me. They were odd.'_

_And he had stored that fact in his mind._

_Because the fact is, from the moment the killer first laid eyes on her, he has been completely infatuated, enamoured, _obsessed_ with her. Every little thing from the way her posture droops ever so slightly when she's nervous to the sparkle of her eyes when she's happy to the way she folds her napkin _just so_ when she's finished eating – he remembers and loves every funny little quirk she has._

_So he can't, in his right (he almost laughs at this thought) mind, take her father away. No matter how much he wants her, he can never let all of her truly die. And as long as the old man in the room before him lives, so does Christine – and she will be his very own living bride._

_He sinks down and looks at the inert, comatose older man – he must be nearing on his mid-fifties. He fights back something in his heart, the oddest sense of remorse. 'I suppose I should tell you then.' he doesn't bother to move his mouth as he speaks, instead throwing his voice into the man's closest ear. 'Yes, old man, I'm in love with your daughter.'_

_He remembers the days when he only knew Christine asleep. The Daaés sleep peacefully, he notes, even at Death's door._

'_I suppose I should apologise, too, because everyone knows Erik's love is always a terrible curse. It brings as much death, destruction and pain as he does, and no joy – except his own; Erik is a selfish man – is ever derived from it. Am I not a sadistic bastard? I have to say, Mr Daaé, when I drugged her and she looked so helpless and vulnerable, it was all I could do not to . . . well. I think you know what I mean.'_

_The old man almost stirs._

'_I have a duty to keep you alive to keep my Christine away from that hatred, her hatred that burns too close to the surface . . . she'll hate me soon, and she has hated me, and I am sure she does, but your daughter is a talented actress. She hides it well, you know, the way she shudders – but not out of fear – when I touch her. But by God, man, keeping you alive does not mean I won't make your life a living Hell should you even step a single toe in my way._

'_Now, this is my fault. I will take _that_ blame. You're here because of me. But you're not the Chagny boy, Daaé, no, you're different. I _will_ kill the Chagny boy if it's with my own dying breath. You're going to survive. But he won't. I cannot very well have Christine off with some young man, stealing her affections and her heart from their rightful owner – me. She will never love me the way she loves you, nor do I want her to. So you are not a threat._

'_So wake up healthy, old man, and be sure to perform your fatherly duties perfectly. If she's upset, I will blame it on you.'_

_Feeling quite a fool, but slightly relieved at venting to someone, he goes to leave, right as a doctor walks in. He pulls a wad of cash from an inner pocket. He grabs the doctor's hands and shoves the money in. 'Be certain,' he says in his hypnotic, perfect voice, 'That this man receives all necessary treatment, no matter how expensive, and tell his daughter that an Angel took care of things. Do you understand?'_

'_Yeah . . .' says the dazed woman in her forties, most likely experiencing stirrings within herself that she hasn't known before, and the killer allows himself a smug smile, ceasing to be the killer, or the teacher, or the lover for merely a few seconds – and for those seconds he is simply a man, simply . . ._

_Erik._

**xxxx**

**Wow! I ended the chapter kind of well!**

**Okay, sorry it's been SIX. WHOLE. DAYS. since an update, but I've had the most hectic week, and reviews wouldn't go astray right now. :)**

**See you next time, my lovely readers.**

**P.S., I've been in the city all week. If you're wondering. :D**


	12. From Bad To Worse

**Oh hey there.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

Mamma was like Dad – they were both fiercely protective and loving when it came to their only children. Though Dad, since Mum's death, had said vehemently, as he fingered the locket he once gave her, '_You have a brother, Christine, always remember, you have a brother_.'

When we arrived at the hospital, I swallowed my fear and replaced it with anger. Erik had done this. It was all his fault. If he hadn't drugged Dad he wouldn't have gotten sick, and I wouldn't be in this situation.

Mamma ran to his side, and I was surprised to see Raoul standing at the bedside. He looked up at me and swallowed before walking towards me and taking my hands. He kissed me, but there seemed to be some undercurrent beneath it – it seemed we were now past the romantic phase. Looking up at him, I felt as helpless and emotionless as a corpse. Like I was lying in a coffin and he was looking down at me. And as he lowered his lips to mine, there wasn't that spark, that _flame_ that informed me earlier that I was in love with him. It wasn't how I imagined kissing Erik would be.

Holy crap! What? I imagined kissing Erik? When did that start happening? No, he was a stalker. No, I wasn't attracted to him. How could I be? No, no, no.

'I haven't . . . where . . . I missed you, love.' he said quietly.

'I missed you too.' I said gently. I truly had. I loved him, I told myself repeatedly. I loved Raoul de Chagny. I had crushed on him forever and he loved me back and nothing was wrong. I kissed him again as if to reassure myself, but that was it – again there was _nothing_.

I convinced myself it was because Dad was sick. I was distracted.

I went to the bed and sat down next to it. Dad seemed half-asleep. He looked at me and his eyes flashed with fear. I gnawed on my lip till I tasted blood. 'What happened?' I asked in a raspy voice.

'I don't remember, _mon ange_.'

I held his hand. In past days, Dad had been everything. I wasn't a popular kid. Meg was about the extent of my circle of friends, and as devoted a friend as she was, she sometimes found herself sucked up into popularity. But my father was always there for me. He always told me stories and played with me, while Mum was either at work in her boring desk-job – she used to say talent was necessary for an interesting life, and she was lacking – or reading. She read to me, books that she said I would appreciate when I was older.

I liked listening to her voice.

Raoul's hand found its way to my shoulder, and I leaned my head on his arm. He was reassuring and warm and loving. I loved him . . . didn't I?

'Everything's going to be okay.' he said, taking my hand and kissing it. 'I _promise _you.'

My eyes closed. I only had a day, and I had _promised_ Erik that I would come back after that. And I had to, because who knew what he was going to do to me – or my family, or friends, or God help me if he ever got to Raoul – if I didn't obey his every command to the letter? I imagined it wouldn't be pleasant. I realised that as much as he told me I was drawn to him, and as much as I believed it myself – unfortunately, I believed it because it _was_ the truth – I still wanted to get away from him.

Who knew what he was capable of? I knew he could take someone from their friends and they barely batted an eyelid until the next morning, and my father in the bed before me confirmed he could come very close to taking a life. So, what if he got determined?

A woman in her early forties and dressed in the customary green of a hospital walked over to us, and she shook Mamma's hand. 'Hi, I'm Dr Richards. Ahh . . . an anonymous benefactor has taken care of Mr Daaé's fees.'

She glanced at me. 'Are you his daughter?'

I nodded.

'Can I have a word?'

I stood up, and glanced back to see Raoul and Mamma sharing a bemused glance. The doctor led me into the hall. 'I can't say much, Miss Daaé, but the man who payed the fees . . . he told me to tell you that an . . . an Angel took care of things.'

I gulped. Now I had something to ask him about. And if he had payed . . . was he responsible for it? Or was he genuinely trying to help me? I chewed my lip anxiously.

'Thanks.' I said quietly.

The woman nodded and walked away.

**xxxx**

_The killer sighs. She does hate him, he's certain of it. But that doesn't stop the fantasies. Damn it all, he gets lost in the sickness of his own mind, lost in imagining _Christine_ and nothing else, imagining her beautiful face and . . ._

_He has never felt anything this strong. Bloodlust, hatred, anger, betrayal, none of them equal the hold that the stinging black tendrils of love on his heart. None of them come close._

'_Miaow.'_

_Shadow sits on the table before him, nonchalant as ever. Already he has grown a great attachment to the feline. He smiles at her ever so slightly. 'What is it, my dear?'_

_He imagines from her almost derisive tone she would be raising an eyebrow if she could as she mews again._

'_You think I'm an idiot as much as I do, don't you?'_

'_Miaow.'_

'_Of course,' he says. 'Thinking you can hold an intelligent conversation with a cat. Erik, you get madder every day.'_

_And he laughs! The killer _laughs_. It's sardonic and humourless, but a laugh all the same. He glances up at a bottle on the counter. Morphine. An escape. He thinks he could use that at the moment. _

_He used to have a normal life. Even before Christine, he might have had a normal life. He was and is ugly as sin, but at least before that fateful day he was not unbearably unhappy in a life teaching. And now, everything is wrong and terrible and he needs her but he doesn't have her so his life is unbearable and-_

_He is quite content to pick up the bottle and retrieves a syringe. He sits nervously at the kitchen table and presses the needle against his left forearm. It is riddled with hundreds of pinpricks where he's injected himself before. And he drives the silver needle into his vein without a second thought. He slowly feels himself drifting into a stupor, and moves to the piano._

_Emotion, anger, love, sadness, everything he's ever felt – he pours them into this piece. He imagines that it would kill anyone else listening to it._

_And he writes it down._

**xxxx**

I returned to Erik's house the next day, like I promised and I waited at the door for a moment before knocking. I left my family under the pretence that I was going out to the country to visit my mother's grave – and I said that I had to go alone. Mamma was happy to sit at Dad's bedside, and Raoul was distracted with school. It almost made me feel like the world _could_ go on without me. And I felt terrible.

The door drifted open, and it was dark inside. 'Come in, darling, I'm waiting.'

His voice was so nonchalant and relaxed that it was unnerving. I gripped my bag tighter. 'Put it down, my love.' he commanded, his voice gentle. I walked in and the door closed as if blown by the wind. I obeyed, scared.

'Where are you?' I asked shakily. I heard a chuckle – it was beautiful. His voice was always beautiful, and I hated him for it sometimes.

I wanted to ask him about Dad, but decided that had to wait a while.

'In the music room, upstairs.'

I went up the stairs, two at a time, and arrived at the door of the music room. I was scared to go any further. 'Don't keep your Erik waiting . . .'

I opened the door and it was completely dark. I tried to see where he was but I couldn't. 'Come closer.' His voice had softened and it was closer. I stepped forward and the door closed. I shuddered as a blast of cold air hit my face. 'There's something wrong, _Christine_. What is the matter?'

'Several things.' I said stiffly, feeling worry sinking into my stomach.

'Hmm, what is foremost?'

'Not knowing where you are.'

'No, that's the least of your troubles. You feel left out, like your family has abandoned you.' My heart skipped a beat as I realised once again he was right. 'You want to feel loved. But you don't. You think you need protection from me.' I felt something like a hand on my neck and I span around. 'But I won't hurt you, my dear _Christine_.'

And then I saw his eyes; he was not six inches from my face. He ran his fingers up and down my arms. 'W- what are you doing?' I asked in a tiny voice. He blinked innocently and continued as if I hadn't said anything.

'You're thinking that nobody would notice if I _took_ you,' his obviously intentional double-entendre wasn't lost on me. I pulled back. 'Took you away from the world that hasn't been kind to either of us.' I sensed his smirk.

'Face it: the death of your mother, every hardship you've ever faced. You don't want your life anymore.' he stopped speaking and the intensity of glowing eyes bore into my face, devouring my features. I backed against the wall and I heard a dark, disturbing chuckle.

'Y- y- you don't know what you're talking about.'

'You came back, didn't you?' he replied calmly. His hand clutched at my waist. 'You came back because you feel something for me.'

'No.' I insisted, then realised my mistake. 'I mean, I do. I hate you. I hate you.'

His arms tightened around my waist, and I was pinned between his thin body and the wall – terrifyingly, it wasn't a hundred percent unpleasant. But as I realised that it became awful and uncomfortable. It wasn't just him holding me, _hugging_ me like anybody else did. No, this was a mockery of a lover's embrace. He shouldn't be so intimately close to me. I shuddered.

'Er- I- uh . . . Dad. His bills. What happened?' I asked, trying to distract myself from the sudden warmth I felt.

He laughed quietly. 'Must you ask? I've told you that I love you . . . I ask for one thing in return.'

'What?' I asked anxiously, my cheeks flushing.

Instead of answering he tilted my chin up with his thumb and forefinger, and looked into my eyes. Surely he wasn't going to . . .

'What do you want from me?'

'You know.'

'I hate you.'

'No,' he said. And timidly at first, he kissed me. From the start I tried to pull away from him, but he moved his lips against mine. It was irresistible – I began to kiss him back. I heard him groan and I felt his tears on my face. My hands went to his thin hair and twisted into it. And suddenly I realised.

I was kissing Erik Specteur, my stalker.

My hands moved to his chest, and somehow he moved closer to me. I pushed him away. His eyes were as hungry as ever as he looked at me. I had only pushed him a few inches away from me. 'What the Hell was that?' I asked breathlessly, clutching at the lapels of his jacket as he pushed me harder into the wall.

'It was proof.'

I gasped in air, tilting my head away. He ran his lips along my jawbone. I was still catching my breath, but it caught in my throat.

'You may leave.'

I was frozen in place.

'Are you deaf, girl? Go!'

Then I ran. I got down the stairs and picked up my bag. I was frantic and I paused at the front of the Princess' Theatre near the house. I rested my hand on my chest and caught my breath. I wanted to throw up. Erik kissed me. I kissed him. And then – what had happened? Why did he send me away?

Wait, I didn't care! The whole thing was a mistake.

'Fuck.' I muttered. I can't properly convey to you how terrified I felt. Now there meant Erik knew I felt something – and that was it; it was perpetually _something_, though I didn't know what – and he was going to use it. I could tell.

I had to see Raoul. I had to see him straight away. I didn't care if he realised that I had lied. I just had to get that bastard out of my head.

I arrived at his house and waited at the front door nervously. Philippe answered the door. I twitched at the sight of him.

'Oh. You're Raoul's chick, right?'

'Yeah. Where is he?'

'Uhh, in his room. Hold on.' I heard him muttering something about me being a snappy bitch as he went off to get his younger brother.

When I saw him I wasn't sure what happened. But one moment I was at the door, then the next I was inside, my bag on the floor, kissing him ravenously. I had to forget what had just happened. It was a big, stupid mistake. I pushed him to his room and we collapsed on the bed, and he pushed me away slightly, looking vaguely amazed.

'Um. Hi.'

'I . . . uh . . . oh, Raoul.' I snuggled against him and focussed on his heartbeat. He was alive. He wasn't a living corpse, and he wouldn't force me for anything. I felt tears running down my face.

'What . . . what the Hell? Christine, what's up with you? And I thought you were going to Seville, to your mother's grave . . . why are you here?'

I kissed him again, but he barely responded. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Hey, don't cry.' he whispered, wiping my tears away. He kissed both my cheeks and wrapped his arms around me. 'I'm sorry. Tell me what's wrong.'

He interlaced his fingers with mine, then lifted my hand.

It was my left hand.

Oh, crap.

'What the Hell is that?' he asked, trying to take the ring from me. 'Specteur gave you this? And you're _wearing_ it? So things are more serious than I thought, then.' he paused and glanced at me, anger flashing in his eyes. 'Excuse me. I didn't realise you were into it when guys kidnapped you. Huh, maybe I should do the same thing.'

I pulled my hand away from him and sat up. He pulled his arms away from me. 'I know how it might look, but . . .'

'But it's a coincidence? Oh, yeah, how could your stalker confuse the _fourth_ finger of your _left_ hand with any other? I'm sure it's a common mistake.'

'Raoul, listen . . .'

'No! Christine, what the Hell are you playing at? Do you just like screwing with my heart? Do you know how much these past few weeks have hurt me?' he paused, and got up. He walked to his desk, without Erik's grace I noted idly, before glancing at my hand with horror. I suddenly realised how much this must have meant for Erik, this ring. As far as he was concerned, I was his wife as long as I wore it. And if I took it off . . .

Raoul knelt in front of the bed and took my left hand. He slipped Erik's ring off my finger, and I made a weak protest. He silenced me with a kiss on my hand. With him I didn't feel the same as with Erik. Oh, God, I was thinking about the kiss. But I couldn't deny that there was everything you imagined there to be in movie kisses. There were sparks – there were fireworks, there was the burning fire of Hell – and passion. He made me feel something I hadn't experienced before.

He _was_ right.

I looked down to see Raoul had replaced the silver ring with a gold one with a diamond set in the middle. He looked up at me hopefully. '_Please_?' he asked pointedly. I sighed, wanting to sob.

Raoul would protect me and love me, and I could certainly spend my life with him. I wouldn't have to think about Erik again if I was someone else's wife. Raoul would then be the only viable option. I could never live with Erik, no matter how much he loved me – supposedly.

I raised an eyebrow. 'Please, Raoul? What do you mean?'

He laughed and knelt over me, kissing me lightly between words. 'Please, please, please, please, _please_ marry me.'

'Hmm . . . okay, I guess.'

'You're so funny.' he bit back sarcastically, leaning down to kiss me. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him closer.

And in that moment I felt free.

**xxxx**

**Long chapter, I know.**

**I am especially anxious to hear what you guys thought of this chapter, seeing as it had two huge events in it. **

**Poor Christine. She must be dreadfully confused.**

**See you next time!**


	13. Doubt is Maddening

**Do you guys want more back-story? **

**Sorry 'bout the double upload. Problems. Lucky 13!**

**Cos . . . I've kind of worked it out.**

**Yeah. Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

'I'm thinking we should go.'

'Go?'

Raoul gingerly took my hand and held it to his lips. I smiled at him. 'Go.' he said. 'Leave. Run. Escape. Call it what you want.'

'Oh, Raoul.' I smiled and embraced him. He wrapped his arms around me readily and rested his lips at the nape of my neck. 'Raoul, we can't. I can't. Our lives are here.'

'But I love you. I want to start a _new_ life. And I want you to be there. Please, Christine . . .'

'Raoul. Don't be ridiculous.'

'I'm not. You love me, don't you?'

'More than anything.' I grinned as he lifted his face and kissed me.

We had been engaged for a week. When I left on the first night I casually took Erik's ring and slipped it onto my index finger on my left hand. That was close enough, wasn't it? As if to make Erik feel better on my way home – the next morning, but don't get any ideas about my virtue . . . Raoul wasn't like that – I briefly pressed my lips to his ring.

He drove me to kissing my own bloody hand.

I sighed and decided I had to tell Meg about all this.

**xxxx**

_The killer watched them together last night._

_He doesn't know exactly what drove him to watch the love of his life obviously completely happy and content with somebody else, but he did. And now he's livid. Did that kiss mean nothing to her? The killer remembers her kiss – if he never sees her again, he will remember that. But was it truly nothing to her? Did she feel the need to get rid of him so completely that she had to accept that little bastard's proposal?_

_He thought by the way she responded that maybe she felt something, but he cannot deny the way her eyes glinted with pure joy when the boy gave her his ring._

_And when they were asleep, the killer slipped into the room, a murderous look in his eyes as he picked up his ring._

_He didn't put it back on her finger. _

_He sits with a half-empty bottle of whisky, which was only a quarter empty when he started earlier this evening. He pours himself another drink and stares blankly forward. Let him die, let him rot into the corpse he has been for the last twenty years, let him fester in his misery! He doesn't care. He feels the need to kill and he's driven to the street. An old man – older than the killer by quite a number of years, perhaps – is walking down the street with a bottle in his hand._

'_Hey man, got any change?'_

_The killer tries a friendly approach. 'I beg your pardon?'_

_His voice beckons the old man and the killer doesn't lose his chance. He seizes the man by the neck. 'Brother, I'm so- sor- sorry! What'd I do to you?'_

_The man's last consolation is the killer's voice saying coldly: 'I am not your brother.'_

_He stalks off into the night._

**xxxx**

'OH MY GOD REALLY CHRISTINE? THAT IS SO AMAZING! I AM SO HAPPY! WHEN IS THE BIG DAY?'

However you're imagining Meg's voice, that's _exactly_ how she shrieked this at me when I reached to scratch my hairline with my left hand, casually bringing the ring into her view. She seized my hand and inspected the ring from all angles. 'When did he pro_pose_?' she said in an irritating singsong voice.

I'd never been so glad to be annoyed.

'Last night.' I said, plastering a grin on my face.

Evidently it faltered.

'What's wrong?' she asked, scooting her chair closer to mine and wrapping her arms around my waist. 'Blushing brides are supposed to smile.'

_I kissed his rival, Meg. I let him kiss me and I returned it. Then I accepted Raoul's proposal to escape the fact that I'm attracted to a man who has done God-only-knows-what in his life._

'Nothing.' I said quietly.

'Okay . . .' Meg said warily, resting her head on my shoulder. 'But this is amazing! I'm your maid of honour right?'

I laughed quietly, feeling weak. 'Yes, Meg, of course you are. Who else?'

'Mm.' she chewed her lip. 'Still, what about Specteur? How's he feel about you getting engaged?'

I didn't dare ask what Mrs Giry had told Meg. 'It hadn't crossed my mind.' I replied falsely. Of course it had; his knee-jerk, kill-the-little-bastard-who-threatens-to-take-what-is-mine reaction was scaring me out of my wits. He could probably kill Raoul. And if he did . . . that was the thing. I didn't know what I would do if that happened.

'You should go see him.'

'I'd rather have bamboo splinters shoved under my fingernails then doused in vinegar.' I said flatly. _That_ was true. I would have to face Erik and he would not be happy with me. And he'd probably profess his undying love again after I allowed him to kiss me.

And returned it!

I tried hard not to groan.

'Whatever. So when do we start planning? I think you're going to be beautiful!' she smiled and started arranging my hair. I rolled my eyes at her. 'And . . . aww, Raoul is going to look so handsome with you. I love that you blush when he does. God, my heart's melting!'

I sighed. Yes, I could be happy with Raoul, surely. There wasn't a doubt in my mind.

'_Ah, but there is!_' I heard Erik's disembodied voice saying. I looked around madly and Meg glanced at me oddly.

'What's your problem?' she asked.

'Uhh . . . did you hear that?'

'Hear what, crazy?' she giggled. 'Sit down.'

Unknowingly I had risen to my feet. I sat back down slowly and nervously clasped my hands together. I was just imagining things. I didn't hear him.

Crazy. Meg's words unnerved me more than she'd ever know.

**xxxx**

Raoul was ecstatic! He smiled and looked at his bed, the place Christine had spent the night. She was his fiancée, and he was overjoyed. He was going to keep her forever, he was sure of it. He loved her. That was certain. Whether she still loved him was a different story. He couldn't deny, when she said yes – well, actually "okay" – and he kissed her, it was incomparable to anything else he ever felt for her. He felt then that she loved him.

But when he was alone he doubted himself.

What did Specteur have that he didn't?

Raoul was young, and confident, and he knew Christine better than anybody did – better than _Meg_ did, even – and he loved her dearly and he'd always have enough money for her. And he . . . until a few weeks ago, he had her heart wholly and completely. In fact, when he was standing in the hospital by her father's side (_Gustav, I love her, I want her hand!_) he felt that she loved him back.

But damn it if doubt wasn't now driving him insane.

What if Christine was just screwing with him? What if she was – he literally gasped – in love with Specteur? What if the asshole had succeeded in his plans? What if she thought he was . . . _attractive_ because he was a fucking genius? What if she'd kissed him, or worse . . .

Raoul shuddered and sat on the bed. It still smelt of her delicious femininity. Surely she wasn't going to betray him like that. She couldn't. She bloody wouldn't!

He remembered that she was wearing his ring. She was his and she loved him. He would never think anything different. He couldn't, because it was the truth, and it had been forever. That look they shared that day was unmistakeable, that day when he just saw a scarf on the ground, and picked it up. Their fingers brushed. He fell very promptly in love.

He smiled. Soon he would be a married man, a _husband_, and Christine Daaé – soon it'd be de Chagny – would be his _wife_. That was daunting and exciting. Specteur could never take that happiness from him.

He hoped.

**xxxx**

'Wonderful. I am very happy.' said Mrs Giry stoically.

She had a great way of showing it!

'Thanks.' I replied sweetly. Raoul, Raoul, Raoul, I was going to be happy with Raoul.

I sincerely hoped so.

'Mother, isn't her ring so gorgeous? I wish Jason would propose to me . . . he's so sweet, you know? He cares.' Meg gushed. It was funny.

'It is.' she inspected it from all angles but looked severely discontented. 'But you should be careful. You never know which _Angel_ could be watching you. And, well, I don't want you to end up hurt, Christine.'

'I won't be, Mrs Giry. It's just Ra-' Suddenly and violently I grasped her meaning and all of it came into focus, fell into place like the pieces of a puzzle.

What the Hell had I been thinking?

I collapsed my head on the table.

And again.

And again.

'Christine, stop it!' Meg said firmly, grasping my shoulders. 'Don't be an idiot. Raoul will protect you.'

'Don't be so sure, Meg.' Mrs Giry said before leaving quite hurriedly.

I knew I had to face the music – I had to face the man who seemed to _be_ music. I had to find out what I felt for him, come Hell or high water.

I stood and left Meg's house without a word.

**xxxx**

**Short chapter, I know, but it sort of evens out from the uber-long last one.**

**First of all, MY ERIK BEATS EPIC INSANITY'S ERIK FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER. THAT'S JUST THE WAY IT IS! HE. WINS. AT. LIFE.**

**Second of all, please review. Please? Please? I'll be super-good and I will never ask anything of you again, I promise! (Read "What If I Asked Nicely?"; it's beautiful!) Aaaaaaaaand forgive me if the characters were acting a bit odd.**

***cough***

**Yep, I'm done!**

**See you next time!**


	14. So I Spent the Night

**Hey, guys! It's been so long! It's inexcusable, on my part, I know, but . . . life gets in the way. -.-" **

**Oh! Before I forget, people aware of the Erik war between myself and Epic Insanity, we're joking (to some degree). Don't kill me. Or her. I respect her and her phics. I really do.**

**I'm still going to win though.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

He was waiting for me.

I stopped in my tracks as soon as I entered the warehouse. He was leaning casually on the front doorjamb and his arms were crossed. He glanced up at me with a smirk in his eyes. 'Welcome back, my dearest.'

I steeled myself. 'Tell me what you want.'

He looked innocent, or at least tried to – it reminded me of the fable of the wolf in sheepskin. 'I don't know what you mean.'

I walked towards him, noticing how formidably calm he was. How had I not been more careful? How had I not seen that he was dangerous? How didn't I realise that he was deadly? Looking at him now, it was obvious. I stopped a few feet short of the masked man – what was he to me, I wondered? 'What do you want from me?'

Erik honestly looked dumbfounded for a second before his eyes relaxed. 'I . . . I . . . isn't that obvious to you?'

I shook my head and my brow furrowed.

'Everything.' he said simply, opening the door and gesturing for me to enter. I walked in cautiously, afraid of what would happen if I were to say no.

'What happened?'

'What do you mean?'

'Stop acting so clueless. You know what I'm talking about.'

He nodded. 'Well, it's quite simple. I kissed you.'

He was so calm! So nonchalant! How could he be relaxed like that when I was driven half-insane by that thought? 'Yeah, but . . . but . . .'

'What exactly are you confused about?' Erik asked venomously, before adding rather carelessly: 'You seemed to enjoy yourself.'

I lashed out to hit him, but he grasped my wrist before I made contact. 'Do you deny that you . . . _liked_ kissing me?'

No.

'Yes.'

He stared into my eyes for a second then pulled me closer, gripping my wrist as tight as ever. I winced. He put his hand on my neck and I shivered from the sensation and the temperature. It wasn't like any normal person's cold hands – his hands were cold like a dead person's would be. 'Why are you here?'

'Wasn't I supposed to return of my own accord?' I asked nervously.

His posture drooped and his hold slid from my wrist to my hand. He interlaced our fingers and looked around, closing the door. He looked . . . vaguely apologetic. 'Stay tonight.'

I looked at him in horror. It was such a simple, usually benign request – _demand, _screamed a voice in my head – but if I was in his house, probably locked in, then he could do whatever the Hell he wanted. I supposed I could figure out a way to keep him in the house. I bit my lip. 'Fine. I will. But . . . Erik, promise you won't leave tonight.'

'Erik will promise nothing.'

I sighed. He led me upstairs and to the library. I sat on one of the sofas without picking up a book, already slightly worried and trying to assure myself of everyone's safety – Erik was with me. He couldn't hurt anyone. He wouldn't hurt me . . . would he? 'Erik,' I began cautiously. He looked up from the book he seemed enthralled in. 'Erik, you won't . . . you wouldn't . . . harm me . . . would you?'

His eyes flashed. He looked appalled and he walked over to me, kneeling next to the sofa and bowing his head. 'Have I given you reason to believe that I will?' he asked solemnly. I shied away from him.

'N- no, it's just . . .' I furrowed my brow. 'I'm scared.' I admitted.

'Damn you!' he exclaimed suddenly, angrily. I recoiled. 'How could you say that, Christine? Have I not loved you with every fibre of my being since the first moment my hideous eyes came upon you? Have I not given you everything I can? Have I not only stolen _one_ kiss from you when you've slept in my presence? I could have done so much more to you! I could have locked you away in this awful house, and never allowed you daylight ever again! I could have killed your precious Raoul – I've had many opportunities.'

My eyes widened. He wanted to kill Raoul, I knew that, but the fact that he had a chance to . . . 'I-'

'Yes, I'll kill him! I'll kill Raoul de Chagny . . . then will you love me, Christine? If I was your only option, would you love me? So far it seems I have only scared you. That won't do! Tell me what to do so you'll love me!'

He lost some steam. I looked down. 'I haven't got all day!' he said. His hands were on his hips and he looked as if he really was waiting for an answer.

'Erik . . . I can't . . . ever.'

I didn't have the strength to love somebody like him, ever. He was insane. He'd hurt me, I knew, eventually. If I even so much as stepped a foot wrong I knew he could beat me or kill me. Whether he would, at first, was what I wondered.

But why was I thinking about it? I loved Raoul! I had always loved him! 'You _won't_! Why? I'll be a good person, if only you will love me! Every second of my life, I will devote to you! Please . . .'

I looked down, ashamed. 'No.' I said stiffly. What was I _supposed_ to say? That just because his heart was broken I was supposed to take him into my arms and tell him I loved him despite his flaws? I couldn't do that. I couldn't really hold him and say: _'Erik, you just told me you could have raped me and killed my fiancé. Of _course_ I love you, silly! That's what you're supposed to do to win people's affection!'_ could I?

Erik slid down next to me. He reached for my hand, but I pulled it away and pulled my knees to my chest. I wanted to leave. I should never have come. Why had I? 'Leave me alone.' I said softly. Erik was shaking. Something about the way he was crying, as I was assured he was, was unsettling. I noticed how silent he was trying to be.

That is exactly the moment when I cracked.

I reached out to him. Gently I placed my hand on Erik's shoulder and waited anxiously for a response. I was expecting anything between him reiterating his proposal or marriage and him trying to bite my head off.

He did neither.

The masked face turned in the direction of my hand. 'You're . . . _touching_ . . . me.'

'Yes.' I said simply, somewhat bemused myself.

But I quickly became terrified again and pulled my hand away.

As much as I didn't think it possible, the silence got . . . awkward. I could imagine his scarred, disfigured brow furrowing as he stared pensively at a spot on the floor. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

'I _am_ sorry . . . for what it's worth.' I muttered. I felt like I'd been such a bitch to him. All he wanted was acceptance . . .

Wait. What? A moment ago I'd been thinking how much I hated the guy . . . what?

'More than you know.' Erik murmured. He was just seeking affection – how long had it been since somebody had touched him in any way?

'Erik . . .' I said quietly, moving slightly closer to him. He looked up through eyes that were shining with tears. Without knowing what I was doing, without thinking about the terrible consequences of it, I opened my arms to him. Yes, to _Erik Specteur_. Don't ask me what the Hell I was thinking. I can't say.

But he came close to me, tentatively, and slowly wrapped his arms around my waist. Even when he was holding me, I couldn't register what was happening. I was probably in more danger than I had ever been. My mind was screaming at me that a while ago this man was telling me he could have killed my fiancé. Though my body and soul were content to sit there with him. And I felt the silky material of his mask against my shoulder. I realised completely that he was a murderer.

But why wasn't I moving?

'Don't leave,' he said quietly. I shivered. 'Please . . .'

I sighed and closed my eyes, leaning my forehead on the false hair of that thick black wig. 'I'm not going to.' I breathed.

And for the first time, I meant it.

**xxxx**

_The killer feels her falling asleep against him, and he sighs contentedly. He adjusts her position so that she is more comfortable. She looks so deliciously peaceful and his heart aches when he realises he cannot have her now – if not now, when? He feels just like a petulant child, but he can't help himself for aching. He wants – _needs_ – her. _

_It's just like a few short weeks ago when she was an unattainable, perfect deity, an angel. She is comfortable here, in his arms. When she wakes the strange spell that has enfolded her like he has will disappear and she'll hate him for holding her. He knows; he can feel her stirring. Yes, of course, she's leaving right now! Why blame her? His useless, drabbling sobs did nothing. Why did he expect them to?_

_But she simply shifts, and she's closer. Her pale, pretty hand rests on the black of his shirt. His arms are possessively around her. This, he thinks, is what he has ached for, for _twenty years_. Now he has what he wants. He can die happily._

_In fact, as he takes off the cursed mask and wig, he wishes that that's exactly what he could do. That would be happiness – death._

_He slips into sleep before he can realise._

**xxxx**

When I woke up, a few things shot into focus.

The first of these was that I was in Erik's house. The second was that he was sleeping with me, so he couldn't have gone out and killed a certain beautiful blonde fiancé. The third was that he wasn't wearing a mask.

Most unfortunately for me, these things didn't click in my brain until _after_ I leaned up to kiss who I presumed to be Raoul good morning.

Yeah, yeah, I'm an idiot for not realising. But that's what happened. I kissed him, willingly, without being shut in a darkened room.

His eyes flew open and they were instantly trained on me, full of disbelief, quickly replaced with something else as he pulled me closer to him. 'Close your eyes.' he murmured reverently. Not knowing what had possessed me, I obeyed. I felt his awful, thin lips all over my face, and he whispered things that I'm glad I don't remember.

The thing is, as much as I found myself attracted or drawn to him, his face was screwed up like you wouldn't believe. And I felt those pencil-thin lips curled into a smile as they pressed against the corner of my mouth. I was powerless to resist, but this time I didn't – _couldn't_ – kiss him back. It would have been cheating on Raoul, and besides – besides . . .

'Kiss me, and you can go back to your precious boy.' Erik murmured, sounding desperate. I gulped. I was creeped out, I won't lie.

He was right there. One kiss and I could leave, go back to safety, be . . . _alive_ again. 'Okay.' I said lifelessly and I let my eyes open.

His face was as terrible as it had been, even though it was oddly peaceful. Passionlessly I pressed my lips against Erik's, hating myself. I belonged to somebody else . . . not just somebody else. To _Raoul._ I loved him!

I was locked in his embrace. There was no escaping until Erik chose to let me go. And he wasn't doing that yet. No, his lips were moving gently against mine, coaxing me to kiss him back. Did I resist?

Would I be telling you all this if I had?

I heard a strangled groan. That was when I pushed him away. I stared as fearlessly as I could muster into that disgusting face.

'I will take you back.' Erik whispered, rising.

I was only too eager to follow.

**xxxx**

**I've never seen such beautiful strangers as you lot! How long's it been, a fortnight?**

**Please review me and tell me you still have faith in this phic. I'm losing that among other things . . .**

**Okay, thank you all!**

**See you next time.**


	15. Decisions, Decisions

**Ohey. Like a thousand words. FORGIVE ME. It's late at night.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

Don't you think I should have seen that coming?

I don't think it's humanly possible for me to have been more of an absolute moron than I was at that moment. You want to know what I did, don't you?

We were just outside the house the next afternoon – _just outside!_ – and Erik was trying to ensnare me. I knew he was. And I should have seen it coming, too. 'Christine,' he said quietly, but calm as if we hadn't just-

Oh. Shit.

Of course. Sleeping in his arms was a bloody brilliant idea.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes.

'Christine,' he said. He used that same calm tone, the one that made my defences run screaming in favour of hearing more. I looked up. 'There is a masked ball.'

'Hope you have fun there.' I replied dismissively, starting to leave.

'Your wit is astounding as always, my darling.' Erik replied coldly. 'And your little boyfriend has been invited – half the student body of the university has been – but you won't go with him.'

Let the record show that I, Christine Daaé, shall forever be known as the biggest idiot in the history of the world.

'Raoul's my fiancé.' I said quietly, obstinate.

Erik groaned and turned away. 'Of that, my dearest Christine, I assure you I am perfectly aware.' he said, his calmness changing rapidly to venom. I stepped away. He looked up at me, eyes frighteningly devoid of emotion. 'You will go to it with me.'

As if repeating it would help me or something, I said: '_Raoul_ is my fiancé.' But my voice faltered. I sounded pathetic.

Erik's eyes glowed. But he made no further comment, instead seizing my wrist – painfully – and continuing out of the warehouse. I followed him, feeling like a pet, and he seemed perfectly confident. How was it so easy for him? He could just treat all the terrible things he'd done – nearly killed Dad, _threatened_ to kill Raoul, drugged me God knew how many times – so naturally, as if that was perfectly normal. As if that was how you won someone's heart. That seemed to be what he was still trying to do.

'Christine.' Erik broke me from my thoughts. I looked at him tiredly. It was frightening how well I slept. It meant I was comfortable with Erik – and that unnerved me more than anything else. 'You haven't given your assent.'

I rolled my eyes. 'And you honestly expect me to?'

He walked a few more steps. 'Yes.' he said, dragging me along with him.

So I fell in step with Erik, hating myself. When my eyes met his again they'd softened and he brought me closer to him. I couldn't do anything about it. My mind was on Raoul. What if he was in my house – what if Erik came with me, the whole way this time? My heart and my face burnt. He couldn't kill Raoul.

_Don't doubt him, _ever.

That same terrible voice in my head reminded me. I groaned and Erik somehow pulled me even closer to him and continued to walk at the same pace. He sighed. 'You think I'm going to hurt you.'

'Kind of hard not to.' I replied dryly. 'You're a-'

'Are you certain you want to finish that sentence?'

I swallowed. He could just cut me off so effortlessly. It annoyed the Hell out of me. I sighed heavily and looked at the ground as we continued. 'So, I _have_ to go to this masquerade with you. And what am I to wear? A wedding dress?'

Erik glared at me. 'It's white.' he said decisively. 'White and instead of a mask – you'll never know the discomfort of a mask for a long period if _I've_ anything to do with it – there's a veil.'

'So, yeah. You're forcing me into a wedding dress.'

Erik sighed. 'I wouldn't like to put it so bluntly. But yes, I am.'

I pushed him off me then. He looked angry, but I didn't care. No way was I ever, ever going to wear a wedding dress around Erik.

He didn't try to walk me the rest of the way.

**xxxx**

_The killer moves through the streets – in broad daylight! – feeling rejected and hurt. Doesn't she realise? Doesn't she see how he aches?_

_He supposes she doesn't, but come the masquerade it won't matter. Yes, he's had a plan since he heard about it. What the fuck was the administration thinking, anyway, inviting _him_ to this party? Who were they trying to annoy . . ._

_Ah, that's it! He's very, _very_ irritated at this slip up of judgment. And at a party where everyone is wearing a mask – hence, the killer will blend in wonderfully – he's going to get revenge on this cruel world. He's going to kill at this masquerade and not one person can stop him. Do they plan, perhaps, on capturing a masked man? Good luck to them, the killer thinks bitterly. If anything, he wants them to try, to make this game interesting._

_He arrives home and finds Shadow sitting on Christine's bed. He's too preoccupied to get rid of the creature. He thinks instead about what he did last night – he left her, and she doesn't know. He smiles; Shadow had been so adorably curled up next to her, keeping her warm in lieu of . . . his body. The killer simply bursts with happiness._

_He just hopes she likes the dress._

**xxxx**

I didn't go home. I went to see Raoul as if to assure myself he was still there, still not a dream, still tangible, and, most importantly, still alive. Incredibly, Erik hadn't touched the ring. All of his behaviour – so nonchalant, relaxed, as if the fact that I was engaged to his rival didn't faze him in the slightest – was more unnerving and frankly scary than if he'd been raging and trying to actually kill Raoul.

He received me with open arms. I flew into his embrace and forgot everything. I could do that with him. I simply wrapped my arms around his neck and let the world fade. 'Where-' he began.

Like any good fiancée, I cut him off with a kiss. He pulled away. 'There's this big party that the university is holding. Will you be my date?'

It was so natural for me to say yes. I turned away. 'Um. I . . . let's meet there.'

I saw the worry in Raoul's green eyes. 'If you say so, sweetheart.' he grinned. 'Got a costume?'

I nodded idiotically.

'Awesome. And we'll make a game of finding each other.'

Again, all I could do was nod.

We spent the day in blissful ignorance – the masquerade was the day after, and I wanted to enjoy engaged life as much as I could. Because, I realised even then, it could be ripped away without a warning.

I was simply praying that it wouldn't happen.

**xxxx**

**Oh, hi guys! Sorry about not updating and making this one short, but the next chapter'll be approximately double length of a regular one; nearly 5,000 words, the way I've planned it.**

**I'm busy at the moment, too. I've got stuff going on with my last two years of high school coming up – of course, only a few Australians know about VCE, and I don't even know if I have any Aussie readers. But VCE stuff.**

**For the record, Rainbow-Says-Rawr loves me.**

**See you next time, which is hopefully very soon.**

**Review?**


	16. Paper Faces on Parade Part I

**HI!**

**To "Just wondering", I meant drugged as in Erik gave Christine drugs to make her faint so kidnapping her was easier ;D Hope that sorts it out.**

**And to EVERYONE! READ THIS! The Royal Exhibition Centre is a huge building in Melbourne generally used for expos and shows. But on all the occasions I've been to it (a few times when it's empty) it's reminded me of a ballroom. So the masquerade is set there, just FYI. Okay, I'm done.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

The day of the masquerade, I went to visit Dad. He was still in hospital, but almost better. I smiled piteously at him and sat by the bed. He sighed. 'Mamma,' he said, 'Had to go back home . . . Sent her love.'

'Thanks.' I replied quietly, pushing the distinctive Daaé mop of curly hair out of Dad's eyes. 'How are you?'

He coughed. 'Getting better. I just wish I could thank the man that paid. Nice of whoever it was though, wasn't it?'

'Yeah.' I murmured. 'Really nice.'

That was the day of the kiss. I groaned internally.

'So, isn't a performing opportunity coming up soon?'

'Oh . . . yeah.'

I'd completely forgotten about the musical that the school theatre company put on every year. It was 'highly recommended' that we musical theatre students at least audition – translation: don't do it and you fail.

'You've just gotta go for the lead.' Dad gave a sickly grin. 'I know you'll get it.'

I didn't need the extra stress – see, when I got home the evening before, the dress had been on my bed. The thing was, it wasn't tacky or gaudy or awful. No, it was a beautiful, elegant gown and the veil was thin enough to see perfectly through, but still hid my face. My mouth was on show, worryingly. It made me wonder what Erik was planning. Was he going to abduct me?

Again?

It was strapless and there were pretty designs on the tight bodice. Secretly, I looked forward to wearing it. Not because it was Erik's, not because it meant I could go to the masquerade – seriously, it was because I would look hot.

'I won't, Dad.' I mumbled, bringing myself from my thoughts.

'My modest little girl.' Dad chuckled. 'When I get out, Christine, I have to go home with Mamma.'

I gave a smile. Truth be told, I was distracted by the thought of the masquerade. What was going to happen to me? Was Erik going to kidnap me or something? It was a wedding dress. Was Erik going to somehow force me into marriage, that night? Was he going to . . . kill Ra-

I wouldn't even let my thoughts go down that path. No. Surely he couldn't.

Grinning as genuinely as I could at my father, I stood up and kissed his forehead. 'I love you, Daddy.' I whispered.

'I love you too, Christine. Be good.'

I laughed. 'It's just a party,' I said, feeling lighter and happier than I should have. 'I'll be fine.'

And I sighed as the future me punched me in the face. I would come to regret those words.

**xxxx**

_The killer smiles. The situation is reversed. Everyone else, tonight, will wear a mask and he'll have the horror of his face on display. He can imagine the beautiful discordant symphony of people's screams as they look upon the face of the Grim Reaper. He raises an eyebrow and adjusts the thick, dark hair that adorns his usually almost bare scalp. He looks good . . . except the damned face!_

_He almost feels the need to bring Shadow, like a nice little omen of his arrival. Melburnian students are superstitious sometimes . . . especially the performers; dancers, singers, actors . . . _singers_ . . . his mind drifts back; he's distracted by the thought of her. He's driven insane . . . well, _more_ by the fact that she loves that little boy. How can she? What does he have to offer her? Looks and money. The killer has more than that._

_Doesn't he?_

_Yes, he has the music, and he's got more money than that little _prick_ will ever hope to earn. He can love her like she deserves, if only . . ._

_The face!_

_He restrains a groan at the thought._

_Slowly, he pulls on his robe and before he goes, he sits down to compose for a few hours._

**xxxx**

Stressed, confused and downright screwed in the head were all terms that didn't exactly seem strong enough. I cursed for the fiftieth time that day and took the dress in my hands again. Did he really expect me to wear a white dress and veil – for _him_ no less? How could I do that? I couldn't. It was impossible.

'Christine!' Oh, I should tell you: inviting Meg over to raid my wardrobe for her costume mightn't have been the best idea I had ever had. 'This is beautiful!'

She was staring – I thought ogling might be a more fitting term – at the dress in my hands. Now, I had a choice to make. And there was no way in Hell that I was going to wear that dress. As beautiful as it was, I simply couldn't. I held it up for Meg. 'Fancy wearing it?'

She looked at me like I'd offered her a million dollars gratis. 'Really? Christine, seriously? Isn't it . . . yours?'

'Take it,' I said, 'I insist.'

She fairly screamed and grabbed it from me, almost running to the bathroom to get changed. I sighed and looked at my closet. Perhaps I'd pay for letting Meg wear that dress. But it might deter Erik for a few minutes. I hoped so.

'How do I look?' Meg said, twisting her straight blonde hair into curls around her fingers. 'Just incredible?' I nodded enthusiastically. 'Man, I'm getting laid tonight!'

I laughed at her and with a grin on my face I opened the door to the closet. 'Now, Miss Giry, we need to pick something for me, don't you agree?'

She smiled broadly and looked into the closet.

'Indeed we do, Miss Daaé.'

**xxxx**

As Meg and I drew close to the building, traversing the lawn – it was an unseasonably warm night – the sound got louder. People talked jovially and we heard the music pumping like some primal heartbeat. Meg really did look beautiful. I was wearing a white dress of my own, only it had a full skirt and went just past my knees. On it were outlines of flowers in black and I had a black and silver mask on my face. I hoped my identity would be concealed for at least a while. Dad was still in hospital, I was confused as ever, and as far as I could tell, Raoul's life would be thrown into the balance at any given moment, but this was a party. I told myself that I was going to have a good time.

I got inside. The party was loud and crazy; I guessed people had been there for at least an hour. It was seven pm.

Meg was already off with some guy wearing a yellow mask with fiery red hair hanging over it. I wondered how she worked so fast. But it didn't matter really. From a passing waiter I grabbed a glass of champagne. I needed it.

'There you are!'

I span and was faced with a man in a perfect white suit and silver mask covering the area around his eyes. I recognised the blonde hair and wrapped my arms around him without a thought.

'Hey,' Raoul said, and I felt his smile. 'You didn't make it much of a chase.' he pulled back as he spoke. 'God, your dark hair . . . beautiful with the dress.'

'You don't look too bad yourself.' I winked. 'But I'm expecting my fiancé in a few minutes . . .'

'Quiet, you.' he said with pursed lips before breaking into a smile and kissing me. 'I've missed you.'

'It's been a _day_.' I returned incredulously.

'Hard to live that long.' he grinned.

'Aww.' I grabbed his hand, entwined our fingers and looked around.

'Do I have to drag you to the dance floor?' Raoul said, winking.

'You can't dance.'

'Like Hell I can't. C'mon, just one?'

I rolled my eyes. 'If we look like idiots, it's your fault.'

Nevertheless, we moved to the music. It was some mass produced techno crap, probably by one of the students. But I was content to listen to it.

Because I had no idea of how close danger was lurking.

**xxxx**

_The killer watches her. She thinks he doesn't know? Bah!_

_Certainly, he's beyond angered that she didn't wear the dress, and she will pay most dearly for the mistake, but he's amused that she thinks she could fool him so easily. Meg Giry dressed in the woman who should be his bride's dress is nowhere near as appetising._

'_Hey, who's this?'_

_The killer turns._

'_Oh my God, that mask looks real . . . it moves.'_

'_Touch it and die.' the killer says._

_But the intrepid reveller doesn't seem to understand him. Well. The young-looking man reaches out. The killer is faster; he seizes the mere boy's wrist and twists it almost off, hearing a satisfying crack and the accompanying scream._

'_Get the Hell off me.'_

'_Ah, but you touched the Reaper . . . you know what happens . . .'_

_And he throws him down the staircase heedlessly, before quickly moving away to avoid Christine. _

_For now._

**xxxx**

'Oh, God . . .' Raoul said through gritted teeth. I looked up at him.

'What is it, love?'

'Char-'

'Raoul!'

A girl with bright red hair and a gold costume came up and kissed Raoul on the cheek, wrapping her arms around him. He gripped my hand tighter. 'Hey, Charlotte.' he said begrudgingly. 'I don't believe you've met my _fiancée_ Christine.'

The girl looked at me disdainfully. 'Eh. You _could_ have done better.'

She gestured at herself.

I tried not to scoff too loudly, and instantly began the jealous practice of picking out her every flaw. She was shorter than me. Her hair was ratty. Her eyes were cold.

Raoul wasn't holding _her_ hand.

'So, you managed to snag Raoul de Chagny?' the girl I assumed was called Charlotte said to me, with not a little venom in her voice. 'I have to commend you. Usually he's an aloof elitist bastard. You know, when we dated,' Oh, she was a bitter ex-girlfriend. That was my favourite type of person! 'He dumped me because I earned twenty five thousand a year and that was too little for him.'

I fought back the urge to punch her. 'Charlotte, are you serious? I thought the reason was because you, you know, slept with two other guys in the same night. Maybe that's just what I thought.' Raoul replied.

How could he even associate with her?

'Whatever.' Charlotte said, walking off. I glanced up at Raoul, my eyebrows almost disappearing into my hairline.

'Geez, what's she on about?'

Raoul sighed and pulled me close as a slow song began to play. He buried his masked face in my hair. 'She drives me insane.' Raoul's arms tightened around my waist. 'Not as much as you.'

I sniggered, mocking him. He sighed.

'No, I mean you in an . . . okay-ish way. It's because . . .' Raoul paused and sighed with gravity. '_Jealousy._' he muttered as we swayed. I smiled against his chest.

'I love you, Raoul de Chagny, don't ever forget it.'

He chuckled. 'I love you too. You want a drink?'

I nodded. If Erik was here then I certainly needed to relax.

And I thought to myself _just one_ even though that first glass of champagne had somehow disappeared. Probably in conversation with Charlotte. Great.

That was the moment – trying to remember if I was anywhere close to drunk – when I saw him. He wasn't wearing a mask. I gasped involuntarily at the sight of him. In one hand he held a huge scythe; I got the sickening feeling that the red stains weren't fake. He was also wearing a huge shapeless black cloak. _The Grim Reaper, the Angel of – _Death. What an appropriate figure for him. And the most terrifying thing of all was that he was staring squarely at me, not even trying to conceal the fact that his eyes were roaming me freely.

I blushed and looked away from him.

Raoul was coming from the other direction.

God, really? Erik swathed in black and Raoul dressed in white? I barely believed it myself. Raoul grinned and I wouldn't let myself glance back at Erik. I was going to forget him for as long as I could. 'Let's go into the gardens for a while.' I said quietly. 'I need air.'

He nodded understanding and offered me his arm. We walked away from the jarring music and lurid lights into the relative coolness and quiet of the city's night. Lights from skyscrapers cast a magic spell over the black sky, looking like electric stars. Nearby the bell of a tram rang out and the streetlights shone orange through the towering trees that whispered with the cool breeze. It was all so beautiful.

I cried.

'Hey, hey, hey,' Raoul murmured, wrapping his arms around me. I pulled away and walked a few more steps, choosing to sit on the grass lawn – rather, I lay on my back. It was the inner city but this garden by a cool, sparkling pond and the surrounding quiet, serene gardens relaxed me. Tears ran and cooled down my face. Raoul sat hesitantly next to me. 'It's okay.'

'No, it's not.' I countered simply. I looked at his ring. I didn't know where Erik's was and frankly I couldn't care less. 'Raoul, this means you'd do anything for me?'

He looked at me in confusion before glancing at the ring. 'Oh.' his brow furrowed cutely. 'Of course it does. Anything.'

'Raoul,' I said soberly, sitting up and cradling myself in his waiting arms. _Safe, safe . . ._ 'Does that mean if I tell you never to leave me, you won't?'

'Of course.' he half-smiled and looked adorably confused.

'Raoul,' How sweet his name tasted! 'If I told you to leave me, would you? Before you answer, it'd only ever be for your sake – for your _life_, your protection, your safety.'

He sighed heavily. 'I don't know why you're saying such mad things, Christine Daaé, but yes, if you ever asked me to leave you I would.'

'Good.' I leaned in to the warmth of Raoul's chest. 'I just pray that it doesn't come to that.'

'Is it likely to?'

I sighed. 'I'm supposed to be with him. Now.'

'Don't.'

I sighed. 'I don't want to think about what he'll do if I don't, Raoul. I'll be back, I promise.' I kissed him tenderly.

He nodded understanding and hesitantly I drew away from him. I relished the coolness of the night and as I went closer to the party, I loathed myself more with every step. I felt like all the mirthful, annoyingly rowdy partiers were laughing at me. Every single one of them. And among them, a hood over his disgusting head, I saw the figure of the Grim Reaper. And I froze as he looked at me, this time his gaze intense. I stopped and it was stupid to try and escape him this time. I couldn't. I never would. Where did I ever get such an idea?

'You came,' he said, suddenly standing in front of me. His head was bowed, so that the shadow of his cloak's hood covered his face.

'Yeah, I feared what would happen if I didn't.' I replied, turning away. A bony hand shot from the huge sleeve and caught my wrist.

'And you think you can _leave_?' he scoffed. 'No, of course not.'

My stomach dropped to the floor with an almost audible _plop_.

'Not to mention your choice of attire.'

I bit my lip and looked sheepishly at the floor. 'Sorry, but I- I didn't . . . want to . . . look like I was marrying you.'

'You'd have looked lovely . . . _for Erik_.'

Nobody noticed as he pulled me closer. His voice sounded . . . _sorrowful._ 'Do you not realise?'

I didn't want to answer. He reached and touched my face gingerly. 'I love you, Christine.'

My heart was aching – _begging_ – for Raoul; I wanted to go back to him. I wanted to hold him and tell him never to leave me. But Erik simply seemed to smirk; his eyes glinted devilishly. 'Stay here.' he said, moving fluidly away.

Now, this was probably the biggest mistake I'd ever make in my life, but instead of following him, I went into the closest bathroom. There were a few girls reapplying makeup and bitching about other people's costumes. I moved into a stall and leaned against the wall, feeling huge sobs wrack my body and hearing myself moan despondently. I didn't know what was wrong but something told me it was big.

'Hey, honey, what's _wrong_?' To my astonishment, Meg stood in front of me. She was in the wedding dress – that made me sob harder – and she looked divine. I must have been a wreck as I collapsed into her arms. She rubbed my back. 'Chrissie, darling, you're going to be okay.'

'No,' I said to Meg, wiping my eyes and looking up at her. 'I'm not.'

And deep in my heart I knew it was true.

**xxxx**

_The killer finds himself livid. He can tell from the look in her eyes that she wasn't thinking about him a moment ago – no, not at all! – she was thinking about the boy._

The boy.

_He seems to be the reason for everything the killer hates in this life. And he stands in the last hints of the lights of the party, seeing the white clad figure sitting reclined in the gardens. He chuckles darkly, and here stands the killer, death incarnate. If nothing else, he will bring death tonight. To the person he loathes the most on this horrid earth – that seems fair, doesn't it?_

_Yes, Raoul de Chagny's death. He can do it exactly the way he wants. The boy is almost in his grasp. He can do what he likes – drag him the short way to one of the many buildings he owns, scattered through the city, and torture him until he begs for mercy or better yet, death – or perhaps quickly and silently snap his neck then leave him unceremoniously to be discovered in the morning . . ._

_The killer's eyes light up as if he's a child in a candy store. He grins widely and all of a sudden he's barely concealed behind a tree with the boy right near him. A few more steps, he thinks, and Christine shall be as good as his. He tries not to laugh with unashamed joy at such a thought. Slowly, so as not to alert the younger man, he walks from behind the tree._

_He stops dead in his tracks as to savour the delicious moments before his rival's long awaited death._

**xxxx**

**There's a reason I stopped the chapter here. Believe me.**

**Yes, the chapter title is a shameless mention of ALW. Sue me.**

**One thing you can do and one thing that I will appreciate more than ANYTHING is if you guys reviewed. All the reviews last chapter were amazing, but I know there's more people reading than there are reviewing . . . PLEEEEEEEEASE tell me what you think. It means so much, especially at a pivotal point such as this!**

**I love you all! **

**See you next time.**


	17. Abrupt

**I'm sorry.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

Suddenly, the world froze.

Meg was bawling. About a half hour had passed and I had been back out at the party that was now in full swing, but Meg had now come back to me, her face streaked with makeup and tears. I looked at her with extreme worry. The only thought in my mind was: _Where is Erik?_

'Meg,' I said, holding her arm. 'What's . . . what's wrong?'

She groaned and hugged me. 'Christine . . . oh, God, Christine . . .'

I moved very quickly past confusion and straight onto fear – my stomach dropped again. She was saying my name like she was pitying me, and that was the cause for her tears.

'Miss Daaé?' I looked up to see a police officer standing in front of us. I clung to Meg and looked at him, frightened. Behind him the revellers stopped and looked nervous, attempting to hide the fact that they were copiously drunk, high, or otherwise engaging in illegal activities.

'Yes . . .' I said, my mind swimming with questions.

'Raoul de Chagny's fiancée?'

'Oh my God . . .' Meg said, burying her face in my shoulder and crying. 'Chrissie, I'm so sorry.'

Then it hit me. It hit me as harshly and painfully as a bus. I looked at the officer. 'No. God, please, tell me, no . . .'

'I'm very sorry, Miss Daaé . . .'

I ran. I ran outside to where we'd been sitting, and already a crime scene was being set up. I ran to his lifeless body and looked into his dead eyes. His head was lolling back at an unnatural angle. 'R- Ra- Raoul . . .' I mumbled, feeling tears burst from my eyes like a flood.

It felt like I was detached from my body, looking down at myself as I cradled Raoul in my arms. I knew who'd done this and I knew why. And the last thing I wanted to hear was his enchanting voice. I was grieving, and the last thing I needed was the crime's perpetrator.

'Good evening,' I didn't look up from Raoul's lifeless, pale face, knowing that _he,_ the person who had just walked towards this scene, wasn't speaking to me – in fact, I doubted that I would ever be able to look at him again. 'I'm Erik Specteur. I'm a . . . friend of Miss Daaé. Does she need to be taken to the police?'

'Nahh, she's not a witness. She should get some sleep.' the officer coughed. 'But we might hav'ta speak to her tomorrow.'

'Indeed. Thank you.' I felt a hand on my shoulder. 'Come, Christine. We should go home.'

I didn't look up at him. 'I'm never leaving him.' I buried my head in Raoul's rapidly cooling chest. There was no heartbeat, nothing to tell me that he was alive. Because he wasn't.

The false lips of that ebony mask pressed against my temple. 'You need sleep, Christine. Come with me, dearest. Everything will be alright.'

I wanted to kill him for those words as he hoisted me into his arms.

When you're grieving all you want is comfort. I didn't have full presence of mind – Raoul was dead on the ground not ten feet away – and so I wrapped my arms around Erik's neck. He hummed a tune and took me to a car, lying me in the back seat and taking off his cloak. He put it over me and I clung to the material and closed my eyes, imagining it was Raoul's warm protective arms wrapped around me. I took a shuddering breath and felt myself drifting to sleep, wrapped in a beautiful cocoon of memories.

**xxxx**

I woke in the bedroom of his house. I was hysterical when I remembered the night previous and I sobbed. I didn't register that Erik had killed my fiancé – not as I woke, anyway – and when he came into the room and walked towards the bed, I didn't resist him as he held me. I wanted comfort. And as much as I hated it, he was the one that offered it.

'Hush, darling, hush.' he whispered. I sobbed harder.

'Raoul's _dead_ . . . _murdered._'

Erik sighed. 'You know now how much pain your Erik is in every single moment, now.' he took my hand – I was so delirious with grief, you can't imagine what he could have gotten away with, had he tried – and pressed it to the skin of his chest. And yes, that was probably the cruellest, most inconsiderate thing I ever heard anybody say. 'Do you feel his heart beating for you?'

I nodded.

'Don't push him away.'

And he pressed his bare lips to my forehead. I didn't look up at him – I couldn't. Doing that would be acknowledging him, and the murder . . . I couldn't.

'Erik loves you so, Christine . . . he didn't mean to kill the boy; he meant to scare him, hurt him, but . . . he knows you cared about your Raoul . . . forgive him, please . . . Christine . . .'

I allowed him to press his lips to my face, all the while begging my forgiveness, begging for my love . . . because I was numb. I thought over every moment I ever knew Raoul. The day we met and he casually told me his name – I laughed and said it was odd – the night we were sitting in the back yard of a friend's house at a party and he told me that he _really _liked me as he swirled the dregs of his beer in its brown bottle . . . our first kiss in the city on the street outside the restaurant we'd eaten at. The day he told me he loved me . . . the second time, when Erik had been in the room . . . Oh, God, the day he proposed . . .

'Christine, are you hungry?'

'No.'

'Tell your Erik if he can do anything at all . . . he's your slave.'

'Leave me alone. Please.' my tone was as dead as Raoul was.

'Anything but that. He can't leave you. You need him.'

'Erik . . . you killed him.'

I was surprised at myself for allowing him to hold me in his arms and not break down crying at what I had just said. 'You can't expect me to want you now, just because you've . . . eliminated your competition. I hate you for what you've done.'

I sounded dead.

'No . . .' he seemed to be whimpering, his voice as pathetic as I'd ever heard it. 'I didn't _mean_ to kill him! I meant for him to be intimidated and try to run! You can't hate me when it's a mistake!'

I sighed and pushed him away, snuggling under the covers of the bed. 'Yes, I can.' I took a shuddering breath, tears coming back. 'And I do. You murdered my fiancé.'

Erik sighed and stroked my hair. I clenched my eyes shut and imagined I was anywhere but there. 'One day.' he murmured, walking out of the room gracefully.

I bawled my eyes out. You've had times, I imagine, when you've been so sad, so empty, so . . . alone, that you've cried till you thought there were no tears left. I passed that point and went further. My throat ached, my eyes burned and my head throbbed, and still I cried. I pulled off the dress and took my hair from the few clasps that restrained it. Damn Erik, damn the whole world when my Raoul wasn't a part of it. I let my hair grow knotted and I knew I was dehydrated though I couldn't care less. Erik had ended the life of the person I loved most in the world. I would never love Erik now – true, hate me all you like from what I've told you, I _did_ consider him in the past. Granted, his methods were . . . well, unorthodox, but he was an unusual person and before that night I thought that he loved me. I knew, in fact. Most of the time when I was with him he was gentle, kind, careful and astoundingly polite. But now he was the monster I thought he might have been when . . . the first time I took off his mask. Though after that I saw he was a person.

But not now; now he was everything I hated. I truly did loathe Erik Specteur with every fibre of my being.

That's what made the next day, no, not the day before, selfish as it is, the worst day of my life.

I woke up at nine, and I knew it was then because Erik told me. He instructed me to get dressed and then, taking his mask off heedlessly, leaned to kiss my forehead. I flinched away from him and he sighed. 'I love you.' he said. I only wished those words were coming from Raoul's lips. But . . . obviously that couldn't happen.

I got up after he left and pushed a brush through my untamed curls. I opened the closet and took out a white t-shirt and jeans, not knowing what to expect. Erik strode into the room and he was buttoning the cuffs of his black dress shirt. Of course he was wearing a suit. 'You look astounding.' he murmured. I couldn't help a blush as he walked towards me. When he said those things, it was truly like he was looking at the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. 'Come,' he said, offering me his hand. 'Come downstairs.'

I followed and he took me into a small study. A man looking nervous and dressed in a plain black suit with a white shirt stared at me. Erik emitted an animalistic growl and he looked down, ashamed. 'Mr Specteur,' he paused and allowed himself to glance at me. '_Miss Daaé_, your papers are ready. Just sign.'

Erik, not faltering for a second, walked forward and picked up the fountain pen sitting by the certificate on the oak table. He signed his name flawlessly in the indelible red ink and beckoned me forward. I looked at it, and those three shocking words stared up at me from the page: _Certificate of Marriage_.

Oh, Lord, no.

He wrapped my shaking fingers around the pen and held my hand poised over the page. I felt the mask brush against my ear. 'It's not an option, Christine.' he murmured, lovingly stroking my fingers with his own. Seeing no option, I signed – _Christine Daaé – _and I had the most horrid notion that that would never be my name again.

I was an idiot, then. I didn't know what I was thinking, allowing Erik to guide me like that. He was forcing my hand, literally. I was too far gone to realise anything. By the time I looked at the paper it was out of my reach.

'Kiss her, if ya want.' said the man in the suit, opening a briefcase and slipping the paper that effectively ended my life into it. Erik looked at me pleadingly, and I groaned. He carefully pulled off his mask and placed it on the table. He was truly and disgustingly hideous. There was no denying it, no sugar-coating the facts. He was ugly.

But his gentle, searching hands encircled my waist and he rested his scarred forehead on mine. 'Know that I love you.' he muttered gently before kissing me.

Hard.

He pushed his tongue between my lips, deepening the kiss beyond my will. I pushed at his chest, but I knew there was no breaking it. So, _moron_ that I was, I kissed him back – again. Perhaps to show he couldn't control me – though it had the opposite effect.

He was first to pull away and he smiled vaguely. 'Come, Mrs Specteur.'

That thought was enough to paralyse me.

So Erik smiled tolerantly, leaving his mask on the desk, and wrapped an arm around my waist, forcing me out of the room. I felt unwell and he was running his fingers through my hair . . . then it hit me.

I just got married.

In jeans and a t-shirt.

To Erik Specteur.

The man that killed my fiancé.

I groaned and knelt at the bottom of the staircase. I buried my face in my hands as if it was a refuge. I couldn't be his wife. No, it was unthinkable.

'E- Erik . . . you . . . I hate you.'

'No!' he collapsed at my side and tried to pull my hands away so that he could look at me, pressing his lips fervently to my hands between pleas. 'Don't hate Erik . . . he didn't mean to . . . he loves you, Christine . . .' he wrapped his arms around me. 'He wants you to be happy . . . _with him._ Only with him. He is so very selfish, Christine, he hates himself . . . someone must love him . . .'

I wrenched myself from his grasp. The bastard.

'Christine . . . don't leave . . .'

Sudden and violent rage exploded within me. 'Where am I going to go?' I exclaimed. 'Erik, I'm locked in here,' my voice cracked as I screamed hoarsely and he looked angry at me for that. I hoped that I'd lose my voice! 'I want to leave you! The only reason I haven't is because you goddamned locked all the doors!'

He stood up and looked murderous. I puffed with the exertion. 'You want to leave, mm?' His madness was gone, replaced with this frighteningly lucid, coherent rage. 'You want to go back to the world where nobody will love you? As much as you claimed to love him . . .'

'I _did_ love him!' I screamed, raging forward, unafraid, and hitting his chest and face with my fists. 'You can _never_ say that I didn't! You killed him – you might as well kill me, too, Erik, because the second you leave me alone I'm going to slit my throat. I hope you kill yourself too, and I'll fucking see you in Hell!'

I pushed him out of my way. I was grieving for Raoul, the love of my life, but I was outright sick of his bullshit. He just wouldn't take no for an answer. I imagined that even if I'd been there at Raoul's death, he wouldn't have listened to me, had I begged for his life.

God, Raoul was dead. I would never be Christine de Chagny.

I was Christine Specteur.

That thought in my head, I slipped into bed, not caring that it was only about quarter past nine in the morning. I pulled my hair, tugged at it, simply because I could. I relished the pain. I scratched my scalp, frustration coursing through me. My nails dug in relentlessly and it only added to my headache and my pain.

Erik walked in a moment later. I glared at him and childishly hid under the covers. He searched for my hand. Finding it, he pulled, attempting to get me out from my hiding place. But I wouldn't move.

'I know you think you hate me,' he said, and I felt a coolness on my fourth finger, 'But one day you won't.'

I felt him press kisses to each of my knuckles and he sighed. 'I love you, Christine Specteur.'

I drew my hand back and I saw a ring on my finger. I tried my hardest not to scream.

I heard the bedroom door _click _shut.

**xxxx**

**That was probably really unoriginal and crap, and . . . sorry.**

**For the record, I love Raoul. Seriously I do. He's a great character.**

**PLEASE, PLEASE, **_**PLEASE **_**tell me what you thought (tell me what a bastard you think Erik is!). I am nervous and this is a major chapter. You guys are so freakin' awesome. And a lot of reviews equals a happy Millie who writes a lot faster.**

**See you next time!**

**(Pssst, there might be a chapter called "Paper Faces on Parade Part II" later, but I thought this title a bit more apt, don't you agree?)**


	18. A Futile Attempt

**You're as awesome as crazy straws.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

It was days before I could do anything. The only thing Erik managed to force down my throat was water. He'd sit at the edge of the bed for hours, looking at me, waiting for me to say something, to even give him eye contact. But I was so lost in my reverie of grief and morbidity that I simply didn't have the strength.

On the fifth day he managed to persuade me – _'Christine, darling, you'll starve yourself to death. Please eat something!_' – to leave my bedroom. I was so numb. You can't understand that term until you feel what I felt. I didn't feel his hands as he pulled me into his arms, thinking I was too weak to walk, nor did I feel the effect of his words as he whispered things that I didn't even want to understand. It was just . . . _nothing._ He placed me in a chair in the dining room and helped me (I felt like an invalid!) eat some soup. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't eat. So, sighing, Erik led me from the room and into the library. It was like he was trying to rehabilitate me, like Raoul's death was some condition – _injury_ – that I would just get over. He asked me if he could read to me. Hesitantly I agreed and he gently placed my head in his lap as he picked up a book.

'It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen . . .'

I was under the effects of the sleeping draught his voice was before I heard the second sentence.

When I woke his arms were wrapped around me and he was lying next to me, his head rested carefully on mine. I sighed and pulled away from him, standing shakily and moving to the armchair nearby, folding my legs to my chest. I rested my forehead on my knees and I felt more tears coming. I wouldn't let them.

_You can escape._

Ah, that voice in my head. Always appearing and saying the worst thing at the worst time. But now it sounded pretty good.

_He's unlocked the doors – you're his wife, he trusts you – get a knife and it's all over._

I used to think suicide was for the weak. Now it sounded like a pretty good idea. And Erik looked peaceful, too; I doubted he would wake up. He didn't deserve happiness, the . . . well, that was the thing. I couldn't even find an insult that described him enough anymore. I moved to the dining room and I saw a door. I moved to it and was momentarily blinded by the sterile whiteness of the kitchen. I squinted and I found the knife block. I took out one that looked sharp and started towards the bedroom. If I was going to die, I was going to do it comfortably.

But Erik was standing in the doorway.

I froze.

'Deny me _everything_,' he said, his voice not faltering, 'Deny me your love, your smile, your voice, your happiness.' As he said these, he walked towards me.

He put his hand lightly on the handle of the knife. 'But you will not deny me your life.'

I tried to pull it away from him and hurt myself but he grabbed it from my hands and turned the blade so it was facing me. His eyes were alive with rage. 'Very well, Christine _Specteur_, you want to die, my wife? I will make it so. I will make it painful. Your life is _mine_ now, and I will take it, should I choose to.'

I backed away. 'I insist, my darling wife.' Erik all but hissed. 'Come to your Erik . . . he shall give you what you desire . . .'

I walked towards him, not caring. He growled and raised the knife. Resigned to my fate, I closed my eyes and waited for the pain.

But it didn't come. I heard it coming through the air and felt the air rushing past my face, but there was no pain. Hesitantly I opened my eyes.

'Never.' Erik said, walking into the kitchen and putting the knife away. 'As long as I live, you will too.'

And he took my wrists, leading me out of the room. 'Christine, one day you'll understand . . .'

'Understand! Erik, for God's sake, you killed my fiancé-'

'And I am your _husband_! Christine . . .' Erik's rage had a habit of flaring then fading and coming back. I sighed and looked into his eyes, not intimidated. 'Christine, my darling Christine, what is it you want? Anything,' he bowed his head. 'Say anything, and it is yours.'

'A divorce would suit me fine.'

'Anything but _that_.'

What did he want me to say? _Yeah, Erik, you killed the love of my life – get me a diamond necklace and everything will be just peachy_? No. That wasn't going to happen. 'Let me go outside.' I said. 'It'll make me feel better.'

He didn't seem convinced.

'Erik . . .' I mumbled his name trying to sound the same way I did when I said Raoul's name. 'Please?' I looked innocently into his eyes and he sighed.

'Very well, my darling.' he offered me his hand. 'But you must agree to these conditions: You cannot leave my side, and . . . you must promise to never attempt suicide again. Never again . . . do you understand?'

'Yes.'

'Good girl . . . good Christine . . .'

I smiled and moved to my room to change, expecting to be able to traverse the vibrant streets of the city, but to my dismay when I emerged in a black coat and jeans Erik led me out a back door into the warehouse and then out the back of that into a courtyard with high walls. Ivy creeped up the black brick walls and a few trees were scattered around. The ground was covered in grass and in one corner stood a small hill. On it was a tree, its branches spread gracefully outward and upward. Sunlight dappled the shade underneath it and with the vaguest of smiles I went and sat against the tree, shedding the coat, feeling the sun on my arms and my face. I glanced up and saw Erik standing in the shadows, leaning against the wall, trying to mask his discomfort. I smiled sadistically at his obvious discomfort.

The thing was, I felt Raoul in the warmth of the sun. I could imagine his playful smile as he told me I was beautiful. I almost felt his calming embrace; his whispers as he held me close on rainy days. I imagined that where the sun danced on my pale skin, it was his lips, his fingers, his words . . . his _love_.

In those few precious moments it was easy to forget that the man standing nearby was his murderer. In those moments it was easy to forget that Raoul de Chagny, my first and last love, was dead. I could hear his deep, warm voice whispering to me.

Perhaps I was simply going insane with grief. Perhaps I was dead myself; I was not alive enough to feel anything. All I knew was I forgot Erik. I forgot that he was probably marvelling over the fact that he'd managed to get a wife or something. I didn't care. I cared about the sunlight and the memories. And both of those were with me, soaking me wholly, body and mind, in warmth and contentedness.

I didn't hear him approaching, nor did I see him till he was a thin black shape, towering over me like a pillar. I started.

'Come inside,' he said, uncomfortably. For the second time I felt as if he was Dracula, and I had the most beautiful notion that the sunlight would burn him. 'Please.'

'Can I come back out?' I asked nervously.

Erik knelt at my side, cupping my face. 'Anything you want.'

I sighed and felt tears blurring my vision. 'I want Raoul back.' That statement so fully embodied my agony, and I wept.

He stroked a tear from my eye. 'No,' he said, seeming almost regretful. 'Not that.'

'I want to see my father.'

Erik paused – it was a long agonising pause. Would he not even allow me to see my father? Surely he could allow me that small favour . . . If he didn't, he was much crueller than I thought. It would be a small comfort, but a comfort all the same.

He sighed resignedly. 'You must introduce me as your husband.'

'But he knows Ra-'

'You _will_ introduce me as your husband.' Erik took my hand. 'Because I _am_.'

I turned my head away from him. I didn't want this. If not Christine de Chagny then I was still Christine Daaé . . . I would never truly be Mrs Specteur. I couldn't ever commit myself to the man that had shown himself as monster to me too many times before. He wasn't my husband – I may have been married to him, and so the law said, but I wasn't truly his wife. I didn't love him – how could I? – and I doubted that I ever would.

'Fine.' I said at last, definitively. 'I will.'

'Then I will take you to see him tomorrow.' he sighed and rose to his feet. 'But for now, come inside.'

I sighed and resisted the urge to push his hand away as he offered it to me. I rose to my feet and walked past him, relishing the sunlight and pausing at the door. I felt like an animal in captivity.

Erik placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me in.

You must know, when you're grieving, you have moments when you're crying and you don't know why. I knew why, though: it had dawned on me yet again that I would never see Raoul. Ever. And that ached more than anything else.

'Christine, _my darling wife_, there is no need for tears.' he said, wiping them away nonchalantly and leading me back into the house. 'Your Erik is providing for you, isn't he? He is giving you what you want. Is that right? There now, you see, it is. Erik loves you ever so much, Christine. He doesn't mean to hurt you.'

There was a pause. I heard a sinister chuckle. 'But the killer does.'

My eyes widened and when Erik turned to face me he was back to his oily, wheedling, begging self. 'Forgive me, Christine . . . I do not know what came over me. Come, do you remember the indoor garden I showed you, the first time I brought you here? Perhaps it would make you happy to sit in there for a while?'

I sighed and nodded. His eyes sparkled devilishly and he heedlessly grabbed my arm and led me upstairs to that room. There was a leather couch facing the false garden and I sat down there. Erik sat next to me, making no attempt to touch me. He folded his hands and placed them in his lap, staring into the green of the artificial miniature forest.

'I didn't finish reading Nineteen Eighty-Four to you . . .' he said absentmindedly after a few moments of comforting silence. 'Would you like me to?'

My eyes rolled involuntarily. 'So that you can tell me that a man who fought all along now loved his overlords? Oddly familiar.' I drawled sardonically.

'May I read _something_ to you?' he asked pathetically. Hmm, it was hard to want to listen to him. His voice could relax me, send me to sleep. But to hear another reading of whatever tragedy he chose to regale me with wasn't an appealing concept.

I assented, though, because I could only think about my visit with Dad the next day. What could I say to him? _Yeah, Dad, my fiancé was murdered, and Erik was nearby so I just married him instead – it's true love, don't worry about that_, or perhaps: _He's lying. I need your help, Dad!_

I fell asleep supported against Erik as he read poetry.

**xxxx**

**Not a cliff hanger. You can't hurt me. But this is probably my least favourite chapter so far. There's like no plot. But there will be next chapter.**

**Over a hundred reviews. You guys are golden. Keep 'em coming!**

**See you next time.**


	19. I Love You, Dad

**Ohai. We get to see a bit of Manipulative-Bastard!Erik here. w00t.**

**ALEX. This chapter is for you, mon amour, because I ditched you on Facebook.**

**Enjoy.**

**xxxx**

Erik clutched my hand as if for dear life. I sighed and let mine hang limply in his. He moved his thumb over my wedding ring and I sensed the smile on his face. He was masked again. He tried to meet my gaze but I turned away. Was Raoul's murder documented? Were they chasing some poor stupid drunk who was near the scene when it happened? Did Dad even know of Raoul's passing? I supposed he would say something if he did. God, I hoped . . .

'Here we are,' Erik said faintly, pulling me close to him and securing a thin arm around my waist. 'Do you remember everything I said?'

When I woke up that morning – I'd slept for almost a full day; I almost thought Erik was trying to turn me nocturnal – Erik had spoken to me like the teacher he was about what he expected of me – _'As far as your father is concerned, you love me; he will know nothing other than we are married and you are _safe_,'_ – and I noticed he said nothing about me being happy. I wasn't happy. The fact that my father was going to see how Erik had stolen me away from my life and taken everything I loved from me, bar music – oh yes, he had sung every conceivable love song and lullaby (that wasn't a garish, awful modern song) to me in the past few days when I had fallen silent for a while – was unbearable. Dad loved me, and I knew that, being his daughter, I was important to him.

Yet Erik seemed unaware of that. He sighed contentedly as we got into the elevator. 'You're . . . perfection.'

I moved away from him as much as I could. 'Please, don't make me do this . . . I can't do it . . .'

'We can go home if you like.' Erik replied, and his eyes glinted. My jaw dropped and without thinking I fell into his arms, sighing heavily. 'It's alright,' he cooed tenderly. 'You're going to be alright. Just tell your dear father that you love Erik, and he will be content. You _will_ love him someday . . .'

I stayed silent, not allowing his words to affect me like he wanted them to. I pulled myself from his arms. He grabbed my hand before I could escape and kissed it, folding up the mask. 'Do you know how much I hate you?' I asked.

'You don't.' he replied confidently. Maybe I didn't before, but he murdered my fiancé. True, before, my cheeks had warmed when he complimented me or kissed my hand or offered me his arm chivalrously, but now I despised him with every ounce of my being.

I sighed as we walked into Dad's room.

**xxxx**

The look of disbelief that crossed my father's face as Erik sat intimately close to me on the sofa on the other side of Dad's bed would have been almost comical in any other situation. But now I felt only abject terror, and looking at him only made me feel worse.

'Christine,' Erik whispered coaxingly, next to my ear. I went to stand but he held me down, distanced from my dismayed looking father.

'Christine,' Dad said, and his tone was comforting. I sighed and looked up at him, feeling like I looked like death. 'Have you got something to say?'

I cleared my suddenly dry throat and I could feel Erik's smug nervousness. 'Dad, I- I want you to be . . . form- formally introduced to my h-' I had to pause on that word, seeing the look in Dad's eyes. He looked at me as if I was the monster, not Erik. Did he know about Raoul? Steeling myself, I said: 'This is my husband, Erik.'

His grip tightened proudly, possessively, as if I was some kind of prize that he'd claimed. Dad looked at him nervously and said obligingly: 'Gustav Daaé.'

Erik stood, gesturing for me to stay in my place. I did. I watched as he approached the bed and extended his hand. Dad eyed him warily as if he were a mighty animal that might devour us at any moment. _How right that was!_ 'I am certain,' Erik said, stealing a glance in my direction, 'That such a beautiful, _perfect_ woman as Christine must have a brilliant father. It is an honour to meet you at last, sir.'

Dad seemed vaguely impressed. He nodded and Erik went back to sit next to me. He pulled me close and toyed with an errant curl, hanging from my perfectly done hair. I leaned into his touch, telling myself that it wasn't worth the abuse, should I not do what he told me. Erik seemed to smirk and his hand reached for mine. 'So, that was . . . spontaneous.' my father said slowly. Erik looked up at him then glanced at me. I sighed as if in contentment.

'He swept me off my feet, Dad.' I said, trying to put emotion in my voice. 'He's . . . _beautiful._' I couldn't help but sound dead, and throw that word out sarcastically. The man I was married to – I would _never_ but _never_ call him my husband, even in the dazed, grieving reverie I spent most of my time in – seemed not to notice.

He sighed and leaned his head on my shoulder. I put my hand to his hair and he murmured something as I stroked it, faux-lovingly. Dad smiled slightly. 'Well, if you're happy. But,' Erik glanced up at him. 'What happened with young Raoul?'

Erik pressed a finger to my lips. 'She was hurt by him.' he said. 'I was fortunate enough to be there to comfort her.' The bastard! He wasn't even directly telling lies – Raoul had hurt me by leaving, though it wasn't his fault, and Erik had been there to comfort me, and it was comfort I accepted. How stupid I'd been that night!

Dad glanced at him suspiciously. 'What's with the mask?' he asked.

Erik took my hand and, still holding it, rested it above my knee. He was taking advantage of this, the bastard. But still I intertwined my fingers with his own. I had to fool Dad into thinking I was happy, or otherwise I could never visit him again – or worse, Erik would kill him.

'Mr Daaé, that's a matter of great privacy, if you do not mind. I would sooner ask you what details you knew of Christine's love life.'

I blushed.

'I know that she was kidnapped – were you aware of that?'

Erik took a deep breath. 'Christine informed me of that nasty business.' he gave my hand a squeeze. 'I assured her on our wedding day that I'd never let such a _bastard_ hurt her again.'

And he nuzzled my neck lovingly. I tried to hide my revulsion.

'I see.' Dad said slowly. I silently prayed that he would realise something was wrong. Everything was wrong. _Raoul is dead,_ I wished to say, _Erik forced me to marry him. Help me, Dad._ 'Well,' he said after a pause. 'You certainly _look_ like two newlyweds.'

Erik beamed against his mask; I felt it. I sighed and forced a smile onto my face as Erik took both of my hands – that was the signal for us to leave. I rose to my feet and he wrapped an arm around my waist. I went to Dad's side and kissed him. He smiled and touched my face. 'I love you, pet. Come visit me soon.'

'She will.' said Erik slowly, almost . . . quizzically. I smiled genuinely at my father and nodded as we left the room. The words _I love you_ were caught on the tip of my tongue; I was scared what _he_ would do, had I said them. Now that same he was running his fingers through my hair again. 'You did very well, _ma petite_. I am pleased.'

I shuddered as we got into the elevator. 'Don't touch me.' I said venomously. Erik chuckled.

'You're my wife, Mrs Specteur.'

I stepped to the side of the elevator, leaning against the wall. Erik simply stared at me.

**xxxx**

For months, _months_ I remained in that purgatory like Erik's prisoner. I got sick once and he wouldn't leave my side, wherever I was. But mostly I stayed in that dark room with the little indoor garden. I stared into the greenness and he stared at me. He would hold my hand in both of his as if it was a precious treasure that was so delicate it would break if he dropped it.

It was three months in. Almost every day he repeated a fragment of the vows that went unsaid between us – but of course, there's no way he could ever have convinced me to say the same thing to him, no matter how much he wanted me to – and he would reverently remove his mask and hold my hand to his scarred, hideous face. Even when I was sick – only once, but he nursed me for days, taking pains to ensure that I was perfectly comfortable. He would kiss my hands, because I wouldn't let him actually kiss me. I was grieving for so long. And I never left his house, either.

My sleep patterns were disturbed too. Sometimes I'd sleep for hours and hours, and others I would for half an hour then Erik would wake me and bring me to the courtyard.

He always fought to touch me. If it was tapping me lightly on the shoulder or stroking a strand of hair from my face, he'd be happy with it. Every time he managed to kiss me – wherever – a huge smile would spread across his face, and it was truly joyful. I hated him for his happiness. All he needed, I thought with a shudder, was me. But I was a normal person – relatively, at least – and I needed other people. I needed sunlight and the smile of a friend as they told me a joke or a rumour. I needed everything I had before, when life was good and Raoul was alive. I needed what I used to have.

'You know,' Erik said slowly, savouring the brief glint of anger in my eyes. 'I . . . I invited Mrs Giry and her daughter for dinner.'

My jaw dropped.

'To make you happy.' he clarified, nonchalantly looking back at the book in his hands.

'Really?' I asked, all too eagerly.

'Yes. They're coming tomorrow night.' he approached me and knelt in front of my chair, locking me in my place. 'But they cannot know.'

'Know _what?_' I asked slowly. 'That you've been holding me captive?'

'Not . . . exactly. Make them think that you love me . . . please . . . I can't let Marie take you away from me . . . no, I can't . . . Just pretend to love me, just for the evening . . .' he had suddenly turned pathetic again.

My first impulse was to say no. Wouldn't you, after all? But if I told them the truth, what could they do for me? Tell Erik to take me back to the world I knew, the world of light and colour and vibrancy? What would he do? Kill Mrs Giry; wring Meg's neck simply because he wanted me all to himself? I shuddered at that thought. I wouldn't let any more of the people I loved be destroyed at Erik's hands, with mine guiding him.

I gasped involuntarily. 'Don't hurt them . . .' I mumbled. 'Please, if you love me, don't hurt them.'

Erik gave a sigh and nodded as if I was enforcing some terrible restrictive rule. 'Very well,' he said, with a glint in his yellow eyes, 'I won't.'

**xxxx**

**Gasp! Will Christine be saved by Meg and Mrs Giry? Is the end nigh? Is Millie asking too many questions?**

**. . . Yes, no, maybe and perhaps to all of the above.**

**Confused yet? Bloody Hell, I would be.**

**Review me, lovelies.**

**See you next time.**


	20. It's Good To See You!

**Alex, you probably can't take me seriously anymore, love.**

**Everyone else, I hope you like it, please leave a review.**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

_The killer watches her – asleep, because God knows if she was awake she would be shunning him – and sighs. He feels vague contentment, but something's wrong. Something has been wrong since the day he married her. But he's felt remorse – no, that's not the right term . . . more _regret_ for killing de Chagny. Then he looks at himself and laughs it off, because why would he regret the thing that brought his wife to his arms?_

Ah,_ says a voice, _you forget how much pain it caused her.

_He very nearly pulls the voice from his brain as if it is something that can be cast aside. Sighing, he moves to the armchair by the bed, a little closer to her. She murmurs something and turns; she is uncomfortable, a nightmare maybe. Yes, they've been growing more frequent . . . he is worried, to be sure. But there is nothing he _wants_ to do about it. While she tosses and turns in her fear – it is obviously fear; her brow creases and she almost screams – the name she groans, clasping for somebody to hold her, is not the killer's, but the name: 'Raoul!'_

_He almost feels the need to go and kiss her forehead and stroke her hair and tell her that everything's alright. But it's so contrived now, and useless, and he . . . the killer almost separated into two people! Yes, there was the killer – that is who he truly is – and then there was . . . snivelling, pathetic, groaning, weeping _Erik_. The killer is the true person, he knows this._

_He watches as she comes slowly to life like a blooming flower._

**xxxx**

That day I remember painfully well. Erik was, as usual, sitting unmasked by my bed like a faithful dog, and I groaned. He sighed deeply. 'What upsets you so, beloved?'

I felt like slapping him.

'You.' I snapped simply, getting up and walking straight past him.

'But have I displeased you _particularly_, my darling?'

_You do every day!_ I wished to scream. 'No.'

'Good . . .' he brightened a little. 'The Girys will be here at six.'

I glanced at him as I began to brush my hair, looking into the mirror and seeing a tired woman looking back. 'You're seriously letting Meg into your house? You're not afraid she'll break everything?'

Erik sighed and pulled his mask back on. 'I'm afraid she'll break _you_.'

Anybody could have snapped me like a twig. 'What's the time?'

'Eleven o'clock.'

Rude as it was, I closed the door on him. I let one more tear escape.

And like that it seemed every tear was gone. I truly dried up. Emotion was foreign to me now; I doubted anything would bring a true smile to my face. Yet, odd as it sounds, that made me angry. I wanted to feel things, but all I could manage was anger. I was a shell of a human being; Erik had taken everything but my heartbeat.

The day I spent in the library. I'd read nearly every book in there that could immerse me in fiction and imagination; most of the time Erik would spend reading books on music or architecture or another country's history. In the past couple of weeks, he'd had the nerve to go back to teaching. I hated him for that. Those days I would spend tired, dreaming of an alternate world where Erik wasn't in it.

It was Heaven.

Erik came to me at five. His eyes flashed as always and I couldn't help but wonder if he got tired of me.

'They'll be here soon, my love.'

My eyes narrowed.

'I- I wanted to tell you.'

I nodded and he walked out, hopefully feeling out of sorts. I sighed and threw the book against the closest wall. Why was I angry? I was seeing Meg . . . Meg, my best friend in the world! And Mrs Giry . . . wise Mrs Giry. She'd see, wouldn't she? I hoped so.

I dressed, trying to look presentable, putting on makeup even – of course I never did that for Erik. Ten minutes before they arrived I wondered fleetingly whether they would recognise me. I sighed and arranged my hair then moved to the top of the stairs. Erik stood at the bottom of them.

'Don't try to communicate with them without my knowledge, my wife.'

'I wouldn't _dream_ of it.' I replied sarcastically.

'I mean it, Christine. Don't forget that you love them and I can . . . hurt them.'

'Don't.' I said quietly, standing up. 'Do anything but that.'

'Hm.'

He walked to the top of the stairs and took my hands. 'I . . . I have to tell you something. It's important.'

'Wha-'

I was interrupted – thankfully – by a knock at the door. Erik sighed and offered me his hand. I took it, actually afraid to see them. He opened the door and they stood there, staring expectantly ahead. It was all I could do not to collapse into Meg's arms. She smiled genuinely but slowly it fell and her brow furrowed. 'Christine,' she said at last, forcing the smile back, though it didn't reach her eyes. 'It's good to see you!'

Despite Erik's arm around me I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her neck. 'I missed you, Meg.' I said quietly as if I was afraid Erik would hear it. She sighed.

I pulled away and looked at Mrs Giry. She gave a curt smile but her hard eyes softened. 'Christine,' she drawled in her familiar French accent, 'We have missed you.' She glanced at Erik and obviously fought to keep the malevolence out of her face and voice. 'Happy with your wife, are you, Erik?'

He nodded, eyes aflame with anger. After a tense moment, he stepped aside and they entered. I broke away and threaded my arm through Meg's. We didn't go to the dining room upstairs; we went to the courtyard where a table was set up next to a gas heater. My eyebrows rose as Erik tilted my chin up. There was an almost benevolent – indeed, if _Erik Specteur_ was capable of such an emotion, benevolence, goodwill – in his eyes. 'For you, my dear, I will do anything.'

I sat down, looking at the sky as the night closed in. Meg sat next to me and smiled slightly. She took both of my hands. 'How _are_ you?' she asked, and it was in that loaded tone people use when they know something's wrong but can't address it straight up. I shook my head.

'Awful,' I said, glancing up and seeing that Mrs Giry was talking heatedly with Erik, and I sighed, looking back at Meg. 'I don't want this. I want to go away from him. But . . . he said he'd kill both of you if I said anything.'

'He's the one that killed Ra- oh.'

'Yes, he is.' I said blankly. 'He murdered my fiancé and forced me to marry him the next day.' I knew that I would pay for saying that but I had to tell somebody. If she didn't know then I risked being caught with Erik until he died – oh, until he _died!_ What a beautiful thought that was!

Meg looked shocked but didn't say any more; Erik and Mrs Giry walked over with food, glaring daggers at each other. I pretended to be happy to see him. A smile spread over his eyes which glowed dimly in the half-light. He sat next to me and Meg went to sit next to her mother; Erik wrapped his arm around my waist. I sighed, too tired to pretend, and moved away slightly. He restrained a groan. Mrs Giry sighed. 'So, Christine, how is married life?'

I paused for a moment. And quietly, I said: 'Not as I hoped it would be.'

Erik glanced at me as if I'd just stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife.

'Hm. Well, my dear, if ever Erik is too much . . .'

I tried not to cry out in pain at Erik's touch as he dug his fingers into my side. 'H- he won't be.'

The meal began with silence.

And somehow the silence turned to a shocked one as Erik nonchalantly removed his mask.

**xxxx**

**To be continued!**

**(Go ahead and say it, I'm a bitch.)**

**I'm going to my grandparents' house for the next week starting tomorrow, so I won't be able to update anything. That's kind of why the chapter's short; I had to give you something.**

**Please give me some reviews to come home to!**

**See you next time.**


	21. I Am Not The Killer!

**Hey guys. Holidays just started for me so updates may be a little quicker but also I'm sick. I just want to bitch about it.**

**Here's the next chapter. More morbidity and angst for you lovely people.**

**xxxx**

It all happened over the course of a few seconds. Erik took off his mask, Meg screamed, Mrs Giry stood up and Erik had his arm around Meg's neck. I sat there helplessly.

"Put her down," Mrs Giry said, her voice little more than an animalistic growl. Erik smiled evilly.

"Now why would I do that when I could kill her?"

"Erik, no!" I screamed, standing, and he looked at me with a vicious sneer.

"My darling wife, never afraid to say too much when the situation calls for it!" he said, mock-proudly. My eyes narrowed to slits. He laughed. "Oh, so when you go against the _one_ rule I give you, it is only too easy to disobey it? Do you hate me so completely?"

I glanced at Meg's desperate face as she struggled to be free of Erik's grip and then at Mrs Giry who simply stared at me, waiting for a response like Erik was. And I took a deep breath to steady myself. "Yes." I said, after an agonising pause. Erik's grip loosened obviously and his brow furrowed in thought.

"I- I love you, and yet . . . you hate me anyway? . . . N- no, that . . ." he paused, shook his head, and his eyes darted around wildly. "That can't be right . . ."

"Erik, if you love me, let Meg leave."

He sighed as if he was a child and I'd taken a toy from him. "I can't very well do _that_." His voice took on a joyous lilt. It was horrible to hear. "So perhaps I will kill her . . . will that make Christine happy?"

"No!" I screamed with Mrs Giry. He chuckled darkly and threw Meg to the ground. She spluttered and coughed, distressed – obviously – and Mrs Giry wrapped her arms around her. Erik smiled again and gestured at the wall.

"Giry, you know how to get out. Please do. _Christine_ is tired."

He grabbed my wrist and led me forcefully inside.

**xxxx**

Later that night – I can't say what happened to Meg, but I assumed she got away . . . or I hoped – Erik came into the library where I sat. He glanced timidly at the place next to me and then sat in the nearby armchair. "C- Christine . . ." he said quietly, his brow furrowing.

"What?" I snapped, and his face showed offence. "Erik, you can't nearly kill one of the only people I love and expect me to talk to you. Please just leave me alone."

"I can't." he said shamefully. "Ever." There was a pause, then quietly, "I am forbidden."

"By who exactly?"

Erik gave me a strange look, his brow furrowing in severe, dangerous thought, and he opened his mouth to speak. "There is something I do not understand."

I blinked.

"Christine . . . I cannot explain my actions . . . I- there's something . . . . I have to say . . . I can't . . ." he groaned in exasperation. "I don't know how to explain it!"

"Erik, what are you talking about?"

He inched closer and moved to my side. I looked at him with distrust as he carefully took my hand and pressed his thin lips to it. He held my hand to his hideous face and closed his eyes, as if in thought. "In my head, there's . . . a- don't think I'm mad, Christine . . . there is . . . a voice . . . no, that's not right. It's not . . . it's me, but . . . but it is not me. I . . . my existence is loving you . . . and . . . music and the law. That's all Erik can do. But aside from Erik . . . I mean, aside from _me_, there is . . . something else."

He'd never spoken so candidly to me. His brow furrowed as he searched for the right words. My hand was still at his face, though he wasn't holding it there. I was confused and not a little intimidated, but to be honest I felt sorry for him. He looked confused, just like a little kid.

It made me feel like a bad person. Am I a bad person?

"Something else?" I questioned quietly.

His eyes widened in horror and realisation. "_The killer_. He- he's beyond me, Christine . . . _he_ is the one that killed your boyfriend . . . he is the one that almost killed Giry's daughter tonight. I hated that _child_ . . . but- but I couldn't cause you that harm. I _love_ you, Christine."

That was when I broke away.

"You don't believe me."

"No." I shook my head. "I don't."

He sighed and looked away. "I- I do. Believe me. Erik only meant to _scare_ de Chagny. But the killer was the one that snap-"

"I don't want the fucking details, Erik." I returned angrily. "As far as I am concerned, _you_ killed Raoul. Leave me alone."

"But it wasn't me! You . . . I can't make you understand . . . I love you . . . believe me."

"It wasn't you? Erik . . . leave me alone."

I stood up and went to my room, reading in the armchair instead of spending another second listening to his lies.

**xxxx**

_The killer sneers inwardly._

"Shut up!" _demands the pathetic voice of Erik. The killer laughs and tells him to be silent. "_I . . . I can't do this anymore! I just want Christine to love me!"

_She does, you fool, you're just too pathetic to realise how strong her love is._

"This is not love! She hates me!"_ A pause. _"Didn't you see the look in her eyes?"

_I did . . . confusion on her part, perhaps, you dunce._

"No! She hates me!"

_Think that all you like, but who has more control of the two of us, _Erik?

"What are you?"

_Stronger than you, imbecile, and that is all you need know. Now go . . . you know where she is . . ._

"Don't say that! I have _respect_ for her integrity!"

_But you want her._

". . . I . . . I . . ."

_Exactly! You can't hide it, slime, so embrace it . . . and her . . ._

"Don't touch her."

_You know that you want to do exactly that . . ._

"I hate you . . ."

_The feeling is mutual, you weak idiot._

**xxxx**

I was vaguely aware of someone's body next to mine as I slept. Their hold was gentle and arms remained around my waist the whole night. When I woke up, my shock was huge when I looked around to see Erik lying next to me.

I screamed and nearly ran from bed. Erik rubbed his eyes and looked at himself in disgust before glancing up at me. His eyes filled with despairing tears. "I'm so sorry," he stood up and wrung his hands together. "I . . . how could I have done that? I'm sorry . . ."

He nervously took a step towards me.

"Don't touch me." I snapped, glaring at him. "E- Erik . . . get out. I don't want an explanation . . . just get out."

He ran hands through his thin hair, glancing up at me with his empty eyes. "I hate myself. I'm despicable . . . I won't bother asking for another chance . . . just know that it isn't _me_. I'm just . . . I can't . . . it's _not._ Me."

Groaning in frustration he started towards the door.

But before he made it, he collapsed on the ground.

**xxxx**

**Millie is a bad person for such a cliff hanger.**

**I hope the killer/Erik dialogue wasn't majorly confusing. It's . . . um . . . ERIK FEELS BAD OKAY?**

***ahem***

**Please give me my drugs.**

**By which I mean reviews.**

**See you next time. :)**


	22. Misfortune Beyond Comprehension

**I've been distracted by Harry Potter marathons and catching up with people this holidays, and I go back to school soon. I am a terrible author. This chapter's given me trouble, I must say.**

**Also, I don't live in America, and this story is set in Australia, so the emergency number is 000 not 911, so . . . yeah. That explains it in the chapter.**

**But enough of my ramblin's! Without further ado, chapter 22 of (the hopefully almost completed) The Killer's Reverie!**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

Shouldn't I have seen it coming? Shouldn't I have known that something bad would eventually happen? As I edged towards Erik I kicked myself for not seeing all of this happening. "Erik," I murmured. Panic was in my voice. I certainly didn't put it there. I didn't care about _him_.

There was a groan.

I knelt down next to him.

His eyes opened and they were clear, painfully so. But his mouth was shut and he groaned again. "What just happened?" I begged.

A rasping breath and Erik grabbed my wrist and pulled hard so I was nearer to him. "I can't . . . Christine, I don't _want_ to . . ." He groaned painfully, sounding pathetic and desperate. His yellow eyes drifted shut again.

Confusion and fear filled me in equal measure. "Erik!" I grabbed his thin shoulders and shook him. "This isn't bloody funny! Wake up!"

Nothing.

Panicking, I ran downstairs. My first thought was to try the front door – ah, but Erik's insecurity meant it was locked. I hit my fist against it, an ineffectual cry for help. It slowly dawned on me as I ran around the house looking for something, _anything_ that could help me communicate with the outside world that I was in the middle of a crisis. This was going to end with death.

"_Miaow._" I looked up to see Erik's cat Shadow sauntering down the staircase as nonchalant as ever. She seemed to smirk as she nipped at my leg and then padded down the darkened corridor. I followed her tentatively and she sat outside a door. I closed my eyes as I laid my hand on the cold metal knob of the door and turned it.

To my amazement, the door swung open. Gasping with relief I rushed into the room and looked around. There was an old telephone sitting on the desk. I sat down at the desk and just stared at it for the longest time – I remember that even today, being so confused about who to call first, wondering whether I could get to Dad in time to escape Erik, whether Meg would reply, or even if I was merciful enough to call an ambulance – before hesitantly picking up and dialling 000.

"_Ambulance, police or fire?_"

"Um . . . I need an ambulance."

"_Yep. Address please?_"

"I- I don't- uhh . . . I don't know. B- behind Her Majesty's Theatre. In a warehouse."

"_I . . . see . . . well, just wait, we'll have somebody out there in about ten minutes._"

Too scared for formalities, I hung up and tentatively went back to my bedroom. Erik hadn't moved. Shadow was mournfully mewing and licking his hand. My brow furrowed and I tentatively reached out to touch him. He shuddered as I put my hand on his shoulder and I pushed him to a sitting position. "Erik, wake _up_ . . ." I murmured, shaking him roughly as I could. No reply. So instead I went outside to wait for the ambulance.

**xxxx**

_The killer smiles inwardly as Erik fights against him, attempting to gain consciousness. He knows that Erik is doomed to fail and succumb to his will. The killer sighs. He says to the fighting remnants of a man that he cannot escape, that Erik will not awake from this but the killer will._

"I can beat you!"

_And the murders, _Erik_? Did you "beat" me then? Take what we want. Then I'll let you wake up._

"No!"

_The killer chuckles and tries to look around, to even open his eyes, but he's stopped._

"If I do not wake up," _Erik says, with far too much certainty in his voice for the killer's liking, and as a punishment he sends a jolt of pain through the inert body._ "Then," _Erik continues, with a groan,_ "Neither do you!"

_The killer smirks._

_You will not triumph, Don Juan._

"Shut _up!_"

_The killer giggles childishly._

_Erik tries harder to wake up._

**xxxx**

The paramedics were two tall, burly men with shaved heads and tanned skin. Seeing me, they both looked instantly worried. I approached them, biting my lip.

"You're the girl who called?"

"Yeah."

"What's the trouble?" said the slightly taller man. I looked nervously back at the artwork of the huge, detailed black angel.

"M- my . . . my husband, he collapsed."

"Okay." said the shorter one. I led them inside and I frowned, feeling stupid. I took them to the bedroom, where, to my terror, Erik was convulsing on the floor. Both the men pulled back at the sight of his face. "W- was he like that before today?" said the shorter man. I nodded as I watched him, screaming and writhing like a mad thing.

"Oh, God, those're some bad burns. Help me with him, Rich." said the taller man.

They approached Erik gingerly and each grabbed one of his arms; they took him to the ambulance. I watched. Mean as it might sound – and keep in mind all I've told you so far – I wasn't even slightly worried for him. I still wanted him to die. I hated him. With every part of me, I despised all that Erik Specteur was. I hated the teaching side of him, I hated the . . . the part of him – it had to be only a part, otherwise he couldn't possibly have been so cruel to me – that loved me, and I hated the killer, the vile murderer that took Raoul and came so close to taking Meg too.

The one that said he wanted to hurt me.

"What, you're not coming with your . . ." even the paramedic spat that phrase with distaste, "_Husband_? Looks like he could use the support."

As if on cue, Erik seemed to almost wake up with a violent, ripping scream.

"Um, okay, I guess."

I climbed in hesitantly as they strapped him down.

**xxxx**

". . . Mr Specteur's lucky to be alive after all that's happened."

"Huh?" I looked up from my distracted reverie. The exasperated doctor looked at me with a sigh.

"Well, Mrs Specteur," she paused on that title and inspected my face. "Hey, your dad was in a few months ago, wasn't he? Wasn't your name . . . something with a 'D' . . . D . . . Davis? Day?"

"Daaé."

"Yeah, that's it."

I glanced down at Erik. "What _has_ happened then?"

"A lot of stuff. His insides are torn up, seems to be some kind of drug, God knows . . . he's had some real weird brain activity, too, almost like the two sides of his brain are _fighting_. And his face . . . should've been treated a long time ago."

"His face?" I prompted. I'd wondered, of course, but perhaps you'd understand why I didn't exactly choose to dwell on it.

"Yeah, they're some old scars. I'd say acid burns, almost . . . whatever it is, it's bad. We can try to get it outta him when he wakes up." she sighed.

"I doubt it." I scoffed sardonically. The doctor rolled her grey eyes.

"Huh. Well, he should be up in the morning. You can sleep in the waiting room if you'd like."

Don't ask me why I stayed in the hospital. Don't ask me why I stayed to cover him. It was probably stupid. Hell, everything I had done since I started university had to be stupid if it had led me to that point. But the fact of the matter is, that night I went to sleep on a couch in a sterile, disinfectant-smelling, cold hospital waiting room, knowing that when I woke up, something bad was going to happen.

**xxxx**

**I'm going to be bluntly honest and say I am not liking the recent chapters. I am considering stopping, although . . . this chapter opened it up a bit more, and started towards the ending I had originally wanted.**

**Reviews would be greatly appreciated, please and thank you.**

**See you next time.**


	23. Nostalgia and Homecoming

**Hello, hello, hello, faithful Reverie readers! Sorry it's been so long! My muse ran screaming a few weeks ago and it seemed no amount of persuasion, coercion, bribing or threatening would bait it back to me. So . . . recent updates on everything have been quite crap. Apologies. I think inspiration is back a little.**

**Anyways, enjoy!**

**xxxx**

I can tell you with experience that sleeping on a hospital couch until almost midday is a wholly uncomfortable and unpleasant experience. I don't recommend it.

At all.

I was woken by a nurse. She was young, probably only a year or so younger than me, but I felt like I'd aged so much recently that she was a child next to me. Smiling, she put her hand on my shoulder. "Are you Mrs Specteur?"

I nodded and sat up, rubbing my eyes.

"Your husband's awake. He's asking to see you."

The thought of Erik asking anyone for anything was worrying. I rose from the couch – I could have run, I know, but something, that eternal something, held me – and walked mechanically towards the room. I peeked in and Erik's unmasked face was on display. He looked up at me. His eyes flashed with emotion as they often did and I looked down to avoid his harsh gaze.

"Why didn't you let me die?"

The question hung on the air like a bad smell.

I moved towards the harsh plastic chair by the bed and looked down at my hands like I was back at primary school, being scolded by a teacher. Even with an IV coming from his arm, lying back on the pillows like a man much older than himself, Erik was terrifying.

"I didn't think that you wanted to."

He looked at me like I'd hit him. "Yes, my life is just _wonderful_." he said sarcastically, pausing and fixed me with a pointed glare. "Every harrowing minute of this pitiful existence I ache for death. These past months – for God's sake, for the past three _years_ the only thing that's kept me from hanging myself is the thought that perhaps one day you might possibly find it in your heart to care for me, the tiniest bit."

I chewed my lip and stared at the ground, trying to comprehend what he'd said. How could I be the reason he was alive? I'd been horrible to him – of course I thought that he'd earned it – and tried my best to ignore his existence, yet I _gave him hope_? What the Hell was that?

"Christine, look at me."

His tone was softer than I was used to. I glanced up nervously, my brow knitted.

"I can't convince you that I wasn't the one that killed Raoul. I don't enjoy inflicting pain on you. But the killer, you see-" he stopped and sighed exasperatedly. "You don't believe me."

"No," I said, tilting my head. "No, I don't."

"I understand no better than you what is going on."

"Leave me alone."

"I sometimes wish I could." he shook his head and leaned back.

For a moment I stared at Erik, devoid of anything – there was no emotion, there were no questions, no thoughts – but suddenly one question rushed into my mind and I verbalised it without thinking. "When did you first see me?" I asked unthinkingly. Erik stared at me with something akin to amazement in his eyes.

"It was your first day." he replied unfalteringly.

"Oh?" I prompted, wanting nothing but an answer. Stupid, I know. That seemed to be my default setting recently.

"I knew because you started on the same day as Ra- as _de Chagny_. I saw you sitting by a fountain, and I _knew_. There was something, this unobtainable charisma that seemed to surround you, and . . . and I fell in love with that." he paused and looked up at me. I was confused by his behaviour. He'd never spoken so candidly to me and to be honest it was frightening, just a little. "None of your friends loved you like I can. You don't understand, Christine."

And of course, as if to reassure me, back came the possessiveness, the madness.

"Erik . . ." I began.

"Listen!" he demanded, fiery. I looked up, frowning. "I had to be content with watching you for two and a half years. I had to watch as you fell in love with that _boy_. I had to wonder what it was like to speak with you. I had to sneak into the university theatre when you sang just to hear you. I hated myself – I _do_ hate myself." he groaned and pinched the bridge of his almost-nonexistent nose. "I don't know why I'm telling you these things. I . . . something is happening to me, Christine."

There was a stagnant pause. It made me uncomfortable and his words rotted in my ears.

"You're never going to let me leave, are you?" I said abruptly, staring straight forward.

Erik glanced up at me pensively. "No, I'm not."

I sighed and leaned back in the chair. "What happened to my house?"

"It's still under your name." Erik adjusted his position. "You . . . I don't want you to leave. For all I know, I'll die in the next day – I hope so . . . I don't want you to be burdened with me, though . . . though . . . God damn it!" he cursed, hitting his fist against the metal rail of the bed.

I sat up a little straighter. "I want to go home."

"Will that make you happy?"

_No, of course not. Nothing will._ "Yes, Erik, it will."

He sighed. "In the music room, there is a cabinet. The key to your apartment is in the second drawer." he paused and his civility disintegrated. "But should you not return, I trust that you'll know it won't work in your favour."

I nodded with vague amazement. He sighed and leaned back.

Before I could watch him fall asleep, I was out of the hospital. I walked through the city, not caring what I looked like or who saw me. I was suddenly enraged. I'd been kept from my life, and freedom was so close I could almost taste it, yet something within me didn't want me to take that obvious chance. Something in me wanted to stay with Erik.

I pushed the thought from my mind as I opened the small side door of the warehouse. Walking to the looming figure of the place I had to call home for the past months, I saw that it was indeed unlocked, and went in.

Shadow padded along the hallway, and stopped, her yellow eyes trained on my face. I often wonder what she would have said if she could talk. Though I guess it would have been nothing that I could, in good conscience, record. She mewed caustically and went on her way up the stairs.

"Music room." I repeated to myself. I walked up the stairs to that room where all my troubles had begun. Maybe if I hadn't taken off Erik's mask then he wouldn't have gotten angry; maybe not so much as he was at the masquerade. Perhaps then he wouldn't have killed Raoul and the two of us could be somewhere far away. We used to joke that we wanted to make it big and be successful and famous in America or England. Maybe if I hadn't been such an idiot we could have been happy together.

It was as I opened the door to the music room that I realised.

I would never have Raoul back. I would never be the happy Music Theatre undergraduate, dreaming about a life with my hot blonde boyfriend. I was never again going to return to the life of the quiet best friend of Meg Giry, prima ballerina. I was Christine Specteur and I was never going to change that fact. As people went, I wasn't that unlucky. As much as I abhorred him, there was somebody who loved me, who would die for me. He put a roof over my head and provided for me. Even if he was a bastard, without him I didn't know where I'd be.

As I opened the filing cabinet, I fought to accept those facts. I didn't cry – I wouldn't let myself – and I sat at the piano for a moment. Was that the thing that had started this? Music? If I didn't love music would I have chosen Melbourne University? Would I have ever met Erik?

I played a simple C major chord. The piano made it sound beautiful, but I didn't want to sing. I doubted that I would ever sing again. Instead I sighed with resignation and stood up. Shadow was sitting in the door. I wondered fleetingly whether she would be allowed into the hospital.

I stood and started towards my apartment.

**xxxx**

Everything was exactly the same, except on the kitchen bench was a note. Frowning, I picked it up. I let a shocked gasp escape me as I recognised the writing as Raoul's. I unfolded it.

_Look, Christine, I don't know what's going on. You said yesterday that you'd marry me. I've never been happier in my life. I love you. I don't want what we have ever to stop or change. But I know it will. Sometimes it's like you're enjoying what's happening. I mean, you seem happy. And as noncommittal as your acceptance yesterday was, I know you love me. But why do I feel like this? I know . . . it's Specteur, isn't it? What's so special about him? I make you happy, don't I, sweetheart? I know I'm tone deaf and I don't know sharps from flats when it comes to music, and I'm no genius like him, but . . . I love you. I think I'm just going to keep saying that until we're both convinced of that. Believe that I do. I'd die for you._

_I don't know if you're ever going to get this letter. But if you do I hope you understand that my life won't be complete until you're my wife, Christine Daaé. You're everything to me and I just hope that one day you understand how much I care about you._

_I love you, Christine._

His messy scrawl reassured me. I folded the letter and slipped it into my pocket. I didn't know how, but it was obvious that Erik had somehow gotten to that letter before me. I was almost glad that he'd withheld it from me; now I had the letter it was as if Raoul was still alive and I could still talk to him. I sighed nostalgically and tried to remember my earlier thoughts. Raoul was gone and I had to deal with it. He'd been dead for months.

I went to my bedroom and sat on my bed. I looked around and saw everything was mostly the same. A few photos of Meg, Raoul and I were tacked to the walls. And, in all honesty, I let myself cry. I was sick of the numbness, the nothingness. It felt good to feel anything.

Running my hands over the photos, I smiled. I sure as Hell wanted to go back to how things were. But I reminded myself that I couldn't, and I sighed as I pulled one photo from the wall. It was the three of us, our first year of school together when we were just friends. In it, Meg had wrapped her arms around both our necks and smiled joyfully into the camera as we both glared at her.

I smiled at the photo and put it in my pocket with Raoul's letter. I didn't truthfully know what I was doing. I couldn't have gone anywhere. I didn't have enough money to do anything.

So I did the one thing that was possible.

I went back to the hospital.

**xxxx**

_With Erik thus incapacitated, the killer has free reign over him. However, he only has the freedom of the mind. The body is inert and powerless. The killer has no need for action, for now._

_Groaning inwardly, the killer thinks about Christine. Erik wants something from her that is not just that which the killer aches for . . . Erik wants a companion. The killer sneers at such an idea. Having someone else is overrated. The killer's thrived with just himself for twenty years since his face was disfigured, so why the hell does Erik need someone now?_

_The killer will not die defeated._

_He watches as Christine enters the room again._

**xxxx**

**Come now, children, surely THIS is not a cliff-hanger.**

**. . . Probably is. And I get crapper at writing the actual killer's reverie every time.**

**Anyway! **

**I've had mild interest from a few people, but I wanna know – do you guys want to know how Erik came to be disfigured? I was thinking of doing a few-chapters-fic that explained how he got to be where he is. I have it worked out.**

**Before I ramble too much, reviews please!**

**See you next time!**


	24. Your Kiss Curses Me

**I won't say much, other than Erik has mood swings this chapter like a menopausal Carlotta. Excuse that.**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

Erik had a crazed look in his eyes as I sat cautiously down next to the bed. I frowned.

"Are you okay?" I asked slowly.

"Give me the letter." he snapped.

I froze. My first impulse was to do it, but I wasn't going to give up my last memory of the man I loved, no matter what he did. What could Erik do, anyway? If I stepped away from the bed he wouldn't be able to touch me, and somebody else would come into the room any second. The hospital was aware of his madness. They wouldn't let him stay alone for long.

I hoped.

"What?" I said, feigning innocence. Meg and I had practised that when we were younger and did things we shouldn't. Like the time she stole chocolate from her pantry after ballet practice – after, of course, her mother said that she _must_ keep her dancer's figure – and we ran down the street together, sharing giggles and bites of the bar.

"The letter from your pathetic little boyfriend. Give it to me." he said, holding out his thin hand. I stiffened and sat up straighter.

"No." I swallowed and tried to bite back angry words, but, unfortunately, failed dismally. "Don't call him pathetic. He was beautiful."

Erik laughed meanly. "_Beautiful?_ Oh, my dearest Christine, how amusing!" he paused and glanced up at me. "_You_ are beautiful. _He_ was nothing."

"Don't call me that." I replied quietly, my head hanging. He chuckled again and sat up.

"Do you know what's happening, my dear?" Erik tilted his head and watched me carefully. I didn't know. I was scared. He'd been acting strangely. And though this seeming return to madness was vaguely reassuring, I had a feeling that I was suddenly unsafe.

I shook my head.

"I'm not Erik." he smiled proudly. "Erik is weak. I shall not relent." There was another deadly pause and I simply stared into that hideous face. "You are _mine_, Christine. You _will_ give me what I want."

I frowned. He grabbed my wrist – how it was within his reach I did not know – and pulled me towards him, his eyes alight with the lustful passion of a man obsessed.

"Let go of me." I said coldly. He laughed and his free hand went to my hair. I tried to pull away.

"No kiss for your loving husband?" he said with a laugh before tugging at my wrist again and pulling me down so that he could kiss me. I struggled against his chest with my ineffectual fists; I felt him sneer as he pulled me even closer, holding my face in his spindly hands as he moved his lips violently against mine, urging me to return it. This was Erik's body but not his mind, I knew. There was something controlling him.

I felt his hand straying towards the bottom of my shirt, and that pushed me too far. I managed to shove him away, and I retreated to the nearby unoccupied bed, panting for breath. Erik smiled. "What the Hell was that?" I demanded angrily, straightening my hair and shirt. "What the _Hell_ are you doing?"

"It's called a kiss, my sweet. Though I imagine with such a _beautiful_, virginal," he smirked at his wit there, "Boyfriend, you're hardly experienced with such things."

He chuckled.

"Leave me the fuck alone."

His smirk widened. "My wife is not in the habit of such foul language."

"I am not _your _wife." I replied harshly, standing up.

"Oh? Whose wife _are_ you then?"

I paused and watched him as I wondered. He had me at a loss. I was married to him . . . but did that mean anything? I didn't love him. Well . . . I didn't think that I did. It hardly seemed like it. I'd been awful to him. I didn't like him. He was a jerk. Especially now. I didn't love whoever this was. I knew that this was the man that killed Raoul – and this man was not Erik. I accepted that with a heavy sigh.

"Erik's."

He tilted his head. "That is a bad choice, _ma cherie_."

"What?" I said, panic seeping into my stomach.

He smirked. "I am tired. I think I wish to be left alone."

I didn't want to give in to that bastard's wishes, but by the same token I was worried by what could happen if I stayed. So I stood up with a sour look on my face and moved to the door. "I hate you." I murmured as I walked out.

**xxxx**

"Let go of her, you monster! You have _no_ right to touch her!"

_Ha, you fool! Do you not admit that you've been aching for that for months? You want her and God damn it, you idiot, you had her. _I_ had her! My God, it's been twenty years since . . . you're far too prudent for my liking, Erik. Just _take_ her already. _

"No."

_You're resisting me, mm?"_

_The killer enjoys the hesitance obvious in Erik's thoughts. _". . . Yes." _he says at last, at which the killer jeers and then retorts with his own cruel deed._

**xxxx**

A nurse rushed into the room as she looked at the ugly, scarred man on the bed. His heart rate had rapidly increased and he had jolted like there'd been an electric shock through him.

She called for a doctor and the man's unfortunate wife.

**xxxx**

_I will make your life Hell, Erik Specteur._

"Oh? What do you think life has been ever since . . . since. . ."

_Since Iran? Since my inception? You can't bring yourself to even think it. So you are stupid, weak, pathetic, afraid of yourself, mad, and a murderer. My God, Erik, why do you even bother with breathing? It'd be much easier if you just let me take over! We wouldn't be in this hospital bed. Christine would love me, she'd forget you! Give me control!_

"So you can add _rapist_ to your list of crimes?"

_It is as much my list as yours. You are the one whose hands have snapped over fifty necks. You are the one who obsesses over Christine like a schoolgirl over a celebrity. You are the one who has stayed awake countless nights thinking of what it's like to kiss those pretty lips. You're the mad one._

_I'm the one who has actually had the gall to kiss her. You're bloody married and all you have asked is a few kisses! How _old_ are you?_

"Do _not_ question me. _I_ control myself. You have _nothing_ to do with it."

_A cold, harsh voice, authoritative. For a moment the killer hesitates – what if Erik gains control? No, no, he won't allow that to happen. He continues despite his worries._

_Ooh, Erik is using his teacher voice! I am ever so terrified!_

"You should be, you bastard."

_Now, now, Erik, watch your language, and don't disrespect me! You know better than that._

"Yes," _the killer is stunned by his tone, but does not allow it to show. _"Yes, I know better than this."

_The killer cries out in rage._

**xxxx**

A nurse rushed over to me. "Mrs Specteur?" she asked, looking worried. I raised an eyebrow and nodded. "It's your husband. He's just had a seizure. It's pretty bad." she sighed. "It may be his time."

Inexplicably, I wanted to cry. Erik was almost dead and for all I knew it was my fault. And yet I still felt hatred, enmity towards him. He had kissed me. The bastard. I had every right to hate him.

_It wasn't him that did those things_.

Ah, the ever-unhelpful voice in the back of my mind deemed it necessary to return.

"So . . ." I prompted. The nurse frowned and pointed at the door of his room. I got up and, with a sigh, I walked back into the room. Again there was a frightening change in Erik's eyes. They were dark, but not maddened like before. He looked like he was in pain. I sat next to the bed, eyeing him cautiously. "Are you okay?"

"No." he replied simply.

I nodded and frowned. "So things got worse?"

It was awkward trying to make conversation with the rather large oh-my-God-you-raped-my-mouth elephant in the room.

"Yes." he looked up at me and seemed to guess my thoughts. "I didn't want to kiss you like that."

I raised an eyebrow and scoffed sardonically.

"I mean . . . of course I wanted to kiss you . . . more than anything . . . but," he frowned. "It wasn't me. I would never act that way. I tried to stop him, I truly did."

As he eyed me speculatively and I did the same to him, I couldn't quite give my fears a name. I knew that now, he was being sincere, and I knew it truly wasn't the same person as before. He extended his hand to me and I accepted it. Our joined hands rested on the sterile white bed sheets and he stared for the longest time, a mixture of adoration and horror overspreading his mangled features.

"I promise that he won't do anything that vile to you anymore. He doesn't love you, Christine, he is a lustful creature, and he only wants . . . y-your . . . body. He doesn't know you like I do. He doesn't understand the feelings I get every time you look at me. He didn't understand my euphoria, the few times you looked at me and there was no disgust in your eyes, just amusement, possibly . . . possibly happiness."

In those few initial days Erik had tried anything to make me smile. He had been so pathetic, I saw no choice but to humour him, and there were a few moments, moments when he was watching me intently as I read or played a few notes on the piano and impulse made me smile up at him, then return to whatever I was doing. Those days had been maddening to me. I wanted nothing more than to escape him, and then for such thoughts I wished that the ground would swallow me up for being so thoughtless and cruel.

I had a similar sick feeling in my gut then as he lifted my hand to his lips.

"He's a killer, Christine. _The_ killer. I am not going to let him con-" he stopped and cursed, his grip tightening on my hand, his back arching off the bed. His head tilted to the side and he groaned, low and animalistic. "I promise that I can be stronger than him."

I recoiled at the look on his face.

"Christine . . ." he bit down on his thin lower lip as if to gain control over whatever was controlling him. "He doesn't love you, but I do. If you feel _anything_ at all, please, _please_ . . . just stay."

Erik interlaced our fingers and closed his eyes, sighing with what I imagined was contentment, gently stroking my fingers from time to time as he appeared to fall asleep.

A few hours of tired nothingness later, I pushed the plastic chair forward, let my head fall onto the bed, and the darkness overtook me before I even thought to resist.

**xxxx**

**Well, well, well.**

**After drinking an entire bottle of creaming soda and having a lovely Deep and Meaningful conversation with my dear friend Alex (Rainbow-Says-Rawr – if you like dark phics, check out "Not Even Death") I've decided that the ending is close. Maybe it's not strictly ExC but it is an ending. I hope.**

**Review me!**

**See you next time, everyone!**


	25. Death is Welcome, The Killer Is Not

**This is the fluffiest that I have ever written Specteur D:**

**Forgive me for it, but I'm setting up the ending.**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

When I woke up, somehow I was on the bed. Erik's arms were around me, and he looked peaceful. I shuddered involuntarily and attempted to push him away, but his arms were like stone, locked around me. I sighed and looked at the clock above the door. It was ten in the morning. I removed Erik's wig, which they'd oddly allowed him to keep, and placed it on the table nearby. I pushed his lank, sparse hair from his face and then paused.

What if, when he woke up, this was the _other_ Erik, the one that kissed me?

I struggled quite suddenly and violently.

With a particularly hard jab to the chest, Erik woke.

There was a sick moment of anticipation when I wondered what he was going to do, whether he'd make me kiss him again, whether he'd say anything at all. For a second I stared into his eyes like a deer in headlights and finally he frowned pensively and let go of me.

"I'm very sorry, _ma petite_."

I scrambled off the bed and crossed my arms as I sat on the plastic chair. He chuckled breathily.

"Truly I am." he paused. "You were cold."

I glared at him. "So . . . you pulled me into your bed?"

"You didn't exactly seem averse to the idea." he replied with a mischievous smirk. I tilted my head quizzically. "Y- you said my name, actually, and you came quite willingly."

"Because I was asleep, you _jerk_." I said, my anger returning. How dare he do that? What if it was just the disturbingly lecherous monster, hiding in that façade? I knew Erik was sick but he'd been pretty driven when it came to me in the past, if murder was anything to go by.

"I apologise. I would much prefer you being angry with me to you being uncomfortable." he said curtly, adjusting his position and fixing me with a steady stare. "Christine, listen."

"I am." I replied, raising an eyebrow. He shook his head.

"_Intently_." I nodded. "I want you to understand that I love you. All the wrongs I have committed against you – poisoning your father, k- killing your boyfriend, abducting you – at the time I saw them as necessary evils." he paused and exhaled slowly, as if trying to decide what to say next. I watched him with a mixture of confusion and straight-out dread. Any second, I thought, he was going to turn into that scary murderer again. Just the thought of that was enough to keep me scared and alert.

"I only wanted _you_, and nothing else mattered." he gave a sardonic chuckle. "At the University all the other teachers I knew noticed. I wasn't accepted as it was – obviously – and . . . the few people I talked to stopped by the end of your first year."

"What did you expect I was going to do?" I asked quietly, carefully measuring my voice. I figured I might as well take advantage of Erik's current mental lucidity before he turned back into that lecherous bastard and started stealing kisses from me again.

"I didn't expect anything." he smiled. "That was the kind of love it was. Love that couldn't be predicted or planned. Love that drove me insane and brought out a side of me that I was unaware of. I just wanted to love you. Nothing mattered. Do you _know_ what that's like?"

I frowned and shook my head.

"When you smile, the world around me disappears."

I felt a rush of heat to my face and looked down. "Are you ever going to let me go?"

"No."

The thought that I was so important to him and hadn't realised it before was a little jarring. I bit my lip and for a moment there was nothing I could say. I didn't want to say that I didn't love him, and most of the time it bordered on hate. Most of the time I wished that he was dead and that he could leave me alone. I hated his obsession, I hated that he loved me, I hated every part of him. But now, as he was, honest and vulnerable, I couldn't hate him. I wasn't that cruel.

"Do you want to die?"

The question came out before I could stop it.

I almost apologised when I was interrupted by the tremulous, tragic-sounding: "Yes."

"But . . ."

"I know what I said. You've made me happy, Christine, but . . . you know, I only cried once before I met you. On only one occasion."

I smiled slightly. This candour was interesting if nothing else. Erik extended his hand for mine and I accepted. I knew he wouldn't hurt me now. I can't really explain the tenderness in his touch in that moment – the term "gentle as a lamb" came to mind – even if I try. After experiencing almost nothing of human contact since my marriage to him, to feel such love just through the touch of his hand was truly, perfectly comforting.

"My sweet, if you promise that you will be there when I die, I promise to be . . ." he paused and a childish glint crossed his face. "To be good for you until I do die."

I watched him gingerly and I wasn't exactly sure whether to accept the obscure proposal. You have to understand, I had in fact considered that this calmness was just masking the madman within him. I was scared of that.

"Okay, I guess." I replied hesitantly. Erik gave a sigh.

"I love you, Christine Specteur."

He was passing into unconsciousness a few minutes later. He looked so peaceful and relaxed that, for the first time, I felt affection towards him, and I leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.

**xxxx**

_You make me sick!_

"Mm . . . I'm sorry, what?"

_The killer nearly snaps from the rage that builds within him. Erik is completely disregarding his domination! How dare he? Does he think he has control?_

_I _said,_ you make me sick! Look at how you're treating Christine, you stupid, stupid person!_

"Oh. I couldn't hear you, I'm afraid, I'm busy. Christine's kissing _me_ of her own free will right now, don't you know."

_You are asking for every punishment you receive, Erik._

"It is worth it for Heaven."

_Do you know why she is kissing you, you fool? She pities you. She thinks it is pathetic that you haven't given up on her and moved on with your life. Ah, but wait, you don't have one._

"No thanks to you and your murders."

_If you are going to attempt domination of this body, Erik, at least do it right. Those are _your_ useless hands._

"If they are so useless, how did they manage to get Christine into bed before you?"

_If you just let me control you, you would have had her in your bed years ago. You know that I can run things better around here anyway, imbecile._

"You mean like how you handled Yasmina, _bastard_?"

_Yes, yes, I _handled_ Yasmina better than you did. Just shut your face and let me have control for a while._

"Never."

_The killer is ready to tear out a throat or two as Erik attempts to awaken._

**xxxx**

**Devilishly short, I know, but I needed to get **_**something**_** up this weekend.**

**Hey, hey guys, here's a review beg: It was my birthday yesterday and so if you don't review I will be offended and sad and probably won't ever talk to you again.**

**Also, the end is nigh. I think within a couple of chapters.**

**See you next time!**


	26. Home

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

Home.

It was when he woke two hours later that I realised Erik _was_ home. The apartment was my old home, Raoul was the love of time gone by, the life I used to have was just that – a thing of the past. Erik was what I was left with after the cruel hand Fate had decided to deal. And I had to cope with it because there simply was no changing it.

I hated the killer inside him, though.

"You should sleep," Erik said, looking at me with fondness as my head drooped slightly. "You're very tired."

"I'm fine." I replied. My eyes drifted shut and then my head snapped suddenly up. "I- I mean . . . not," I yawned quietly. 'Tired."

"Come now, you are. Surely you're not worried for me . . ." he smirked devilishly.

"Nope. I'm just . . . comfortable here."

"You _are_ not." he said sternly, and I let my head fall. "You need to sleep and I am not very well going to do anything in your absence. There are people watching me."

"No." I insisted, mumbling the word out feebly.

"Christine," his voice lowered to a growl. "Go home and sleep."

I mumbled something that must have passed as an answer, stood up, and collected my jacket. Erik had a smile on his face as I turned to nod at him then quickly took my leave.

When I got to the warehouse I noticed I was smiling. I walked in with a determined air and continued into the house. To my amazement, Shadow was still there and still alive. She mewed at me and padded purposefully towards me. I smiled at her and went up the stairs, humming to myself, because even though I wasn't happy, a peaceful, serene contentedness had filled me. Nothing could bring my mood down because it wasn't up. Too tired to care about anything, I slumped on my bed and I slept. It was dreamless and dark and I felt continuous warmth within me as I slept, vaguely aware of a furry shape next to me, curled up and moving occasionally, emitting a plaintive _miaow_ whenever I was too close.

I was not prepared for what happened when I woke up.

**xxxx**

"I know what you're thinking."

_Of course you do, you idiot! That's generally what sharing a brain does._

"Don't try it."

_Why the Hell not? I grow restless! I think I'm _in the mood_ and I know of a certain girl who could help! I can imagine it now . . ._

"You stay away from her!"

_You know you'd enjoy throwing her down and fu-_

"Shut the Hell up!"

_Hah, you cannot deny you _want_ her! You think it's vulgar I'm saying such things but you want it so badly that it's making you ache just thinking about it!_

"Perhaps I do – of course I want her in that way, you simpleton – but desire is simply a demon. True _Hell_ is getting what you want."

_Ever so philosophical of you, Erik, I would almost be impressed if you weren't so bloody prudish and annoying! Just sleep with her and be done with it!_

_The killer sneers at Erik's obvious disgust. _"No. She likes me again, after months, can't you see it? I will not risk that, no matter what the reward may be!"

_I'm afraid I haven't told you often enough for you to realise it, Erik, but you are _pathetic_. You are nothing. You are not worth her time._

"How stupid do you think I am?"

_Incredibly._

"I won't do it!"

_It's not up to you._

_The killer laughs meanly as Erik attempts to fight him._

**xxxx**

When I woke up, it was because of a sound. The door slamming, I thought. I rubbed my eyes and Shadow was at attention straight away; she jumped off the bed and bounded out of the room. I sat up and brought my knees to my chest. Shadow came back in, hissing as she turned to face the door, her back arching.

Erik walked calmly into the room.

Shadow launched herself at his leg and sank her sharp little teeth in.

He gave an irritated cry and kicked her away.

"E- Erik . . . ?" I ventured quietly. The man chuckled.

"No."

I went to stand but before I could he was in front of me, pushing me back down, smiling in a way that can only be described as maniacal. His hands detained my arms and he leaned closer and closer to me.

It was with horror that I realised what was happening.

"Get the Hell off me."

"But _why_, dearest? It's been so long . . ."

I glared into his eyes. This wasn't Erik. This was that other crazy side of him, the one that wanted . . . ugh, I can't even record it, the thought disgusts me so much.

"You've denied your dear husband too long, _Mrs Specteur_, and he's grown tired of waiting."

"You're sick!"

"Ah," he chuckled darkly. "I am! Going to die very soon, don't you know!" he sat up and laughed; I took the opportunity to get off the bed. "Then Erik will be free to love you all he likes!"

I raised an eyebrow and started for the door.

I heard an enraged . . . well, an enraged _scream_. I turned back and the eyes of that beast were softer; he was running his fingers over his scalp and he tore off the wig, seeming frighteningly exasperated. He looked up at me tearfully. "Run." he said, worry obvious in his voice. "Don't come back."

"Erik . . ."

He continued raking his fingers over his almost bare scalp. "He'll do unspeakable things if you give him the chance to."

"Then . . . don't give him the chance." I replied, cautiously approaching him. He looked up at me yet continued his angry movements. "Just don't let him control you."

"I wish it was that simple."

I paused in confusion for a moment. As I saw it, there weren't exactly many paths open to me. I could run – run away from _home_ – or I could stay, convince Erik to beat whatever was doing this to him, and live in this semi-contentedness for a while longer, until Erik inevitably had a relapse into madness or . . . died.

"It can be."

I resigned myself to my fate then; I knew things would never be how they used to. I wouldn't have any of my old life back, so I might as well accept what I had. There was no way to change it, so what else could I do but embrace it?

"I don't," he broke off and groaned. "I don't understand . . ."

"You've done some bad things, Erik." I said, walking levelly towards him. "You've done things that nobody in their right mind would forgive you for."

He looked down shamefully. I perched myself precariously on the bed next to him and tilted my head. "But – don't ask me why – I think I forgive you. I don't think it's right, but I do."

Erik moved tentatively closer to me, almost like an animal sniffing the air, and gently wrapped his arms around my waist. I sighed and accepted his touch; he relaxed into the embrace with ease. I knew resisting him – resisting the real, lonely, loving Erik and not his other side, the _evil_ one – would be futile. I heard him sighing. "You love me." he said with what sounded almost like resignation in his voice. I closed my eyes, trying not to respond. But of course, I probably wouldn't be writing all of this down right now if I had declined it.

"I guess so." I replied.

He didn't respond.

"You need to go back to the hospital." I said gently, pulling away from him.

"I don't want to." he replied stubbornly, sounding a lot younger than he was. I sighed resignedly. "I want to die here with you."

I knew deep in my heart that it wasn't true, but I said it anyway. "You're not going to die."

He laughed quietly, pulling me down and resting my head on his chest. "Yes, I am. I'm a very unhealthy man, you know, my dear."

I sighed.

"Are you happy?" Erik asked quietly, reaching to push a tendril of hair from my face.

"No."

"Because of de Chagny?" he asked, his voice faltering slightly on the name. I closed my eyes and grasped at the front of his shirt. He stroked my hair, and for the first time in months I felt peaceful. It definitely wasn't happiness, but it was an odd sort of contentment. I knew then that Erik loved me, I understood everything he'd done was out of love, no matter how cruel or evil it was.

"Yes."

He sighed. "I think that the killer – I hate him, Christine, he doesn't love you – is gone . . . or close. Your love keeps me sane, Christine." There was a quiet pause. I took a deep breath and looked up at him, propping myself up on one elbow. He smiled and continued to brush his fingers through my hair.

"Are _you_ happy, Erik?" I inquired gently. He sighed, his eyes in their deep sockets half-lidded.

"I am _elated_." he replied. "Few things could make me happier, my beloved wife."

I half-smiled and laid my head back down. Sighing with contentment, I let my eyelids fall shut and I felt Shadow curl up next to me, purring.

I was home as I fell asleep.

**xxxx**

_Erik is not going to die sad._

_Rather than Erik being an influence on the killer's mind, the killer is now nothing but a menacing whisper, promising ill luck and destruction._

_Erik is only too happy to pay the voice no mind whatsoever._

_Christine shifts in his grasp and he tightens his arms around her possessively. She smiles in her sleep. He knows he has done her wrong; he has committed crimes against her that, as she said, nobody in their right mind would forgive. Well, then, she simply must be mad. But that's perfectly alright with him. If she's mad then she matches her husband._

_Her _husband.

_He smiles, kisses her forehead, whispers: "I am yours, Christine Specteur."_

"You make me want to projectile vomit!"

_The killer is attempting to sound frightening, threatening. Erik simply laughs inwardly, mocking the bygone demon. He disregards all of the killer's complaints. Christine's love has given him everything he's ever wanted. When he was young and he went after women, he was looking for her, he just didn't realise it. But now he does, and everything of value in the world to him is safely in his arms. He pushes her hair tenderly from her face and presses his lips to her temple. She mumbles something and wraps her arm around his thin waist. He smiles contently; he never wants to leave this moment._

_But sleep, the sleep he has never been able to grasp, claims him without a protest._

**xxxx**

**IT'S SO FLUFFY. MY HEAD WILL EXPLODE~!**

**. . . *ahem***

**So this is the second last chapter. And I really do apologise for the fluff, it must be an odd change. **

**As for Christine's feelings, before you complain, I have spent nine chapters of her feelings developing after Raoul's death. Erik's always been there and she's had to lean on him, so it's only natural that some form of affection/dependence/love would develop. Just clearing that up if anybody pulled the OOC card. D:**

**Reviews! ^_^**

**See you next time!**


	27. He Was Happy

**Well this has made me very, very tired, so right after posting this, it's bed time for me, kiddies.**

**First finished fic, woooo.**

**I hope you guys enjoyed it as much as me, and forgive any disappointments this chapter, hope it's not too fluffy.**

**Enjoy!**

**xxxx**

The next morning I woke up with my arms around Erik's waist and my head against his chest. He was awake before me and smiled down, the lines of his hideous face softened with adoration. Without thinking – and with rather a strong sense of déjà vu – I kissed him. I felt his thin, disfigured lips curve into a sardonic smile and he pulled away.

"That was rather a fast change of heart, my love."

"Shut up." I replied sourly, sitting up.

He chuckled. "I'm sorry, I'm just not used to you showing affection. I'm rather fond of it. I should think it'll be a nice way to pass on."

"You're a jerk."

"I know." he hung his head. Shadow mewed and climbed into his lap. He smiled then. "It's amazing," he said, glancing up at me and frowning slightly. "That the day on which I die is the same day where I feel happier than I ever have before."

"You don't know that you're going to die." I replied, absentmindedly stroking Shadow's fur. She purred and I felt it vibrate through her sleek body.

"I do, in fact. Because I am willing it to be so, and it will happen." he smiled breezily. "And you will be by my side when I take my final breath."

I shook my head and sighed. "I'm going to get breakfast."

"There's no food in the house."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Then let's go out, hmm?"

Erik took a deep breath. "As divine as that sounds, I don't think I can. I truly am sick, you know. But please go get something for yourself. My money is yours."

"Okay, fine." I mumbled, getting up and lightly kissing him, simply because I could. "Try not to die 'till I get back, yeah?"

He chuckled. "I'll do my best, my sweet."

I went out of the house then, grabbing a five dollar bill that was sitting on the chest of drawers as I passed. I bought coffee; I couldn't bring myself to eat. It seemed somehow wrong under the circumstances, yet, like so many other things, it was impossible to explain.

I lingered in the street, enjoying every second of the early morning sunlight. Life was good again and I was free to admit it. Of course, I knew, the happiness I had sort of found was going to be gone by the end of the day. But that didn't mean I couldn't draw pleasure from the contentedness surrounding me _now_.

After what must have been an hour, I went home.

**xxxx**

_Erik rises from bed. Yes, he's going to die today. He knows that his old, worn body simply can't take another shot of morphine._

"You are weak. Taking the easy way out."

_It is _not_ easy. I _am_ unwell, you're aware of that. I don't want to burden her any longer._

"Pathetic."

_Perhaps so, but your opinion means absolutely naught to me, so shut your mouth._

_Erik moves to his study and grabs the small case he keeps a metal syringe and a small bottle of morphine in – he goes back to Christine's bedroom and sits against the bed head, calmly filling the syringe and resting it against his forearm. He waits for the sound of Christine opening the door before he calmly injects the drug that will bring his death._

**xxxx**

I walked back into the house and upstairs. Shadow was at the door to the bedroom and she looked almost perturbed. I leaned down and stroked her fur. She did not change her position. I worriedly frowned and opened the door.

"Um . . . Erik . . . are you okay?" I ventured, walking into the room and switching on the light.

I heard a breathy laugh. "I'm fine."

I noticed a silver syringe on the bed next to him. I frowned and walked towards him quickly. "Erik, what did you take?" I asked frenziedly. He looked up at me and gestured for me to sit next to him. As calmly as possible I did, and I inspected his arm. He was laughing.

"Morphine," he said, serenely. "Too much to survive without medical help."

"You overdosed?" I exclaimed, half-angry, half-distressed.

He nodded, closing his eyes and sighing. I pushed him into a sitting position. He opened his eyes in shock as I sat on his legs. "Why the Hell did you do that?" I demanded.

He smiled. "I'm sick, Christine, you know." he tilted his head and I _swear_ he winked. "Truly I am. I'm just speeding things up a bit."

"Why?" I asked, gripping his shoulders and shaking him.

"Because you're not happy." I must have looked unimpressed, because he added: "And because I'm sick of life. And I really am in pain."

I sighed, leaned closer, and wrapped my arms around his neck. "Just when we're both happy."

"I seem to have always been gifted with impeccably bad timing." he replied calmly.

"Erik . . ." I sighed, frustrated, and resisted the urge to slap a palm to my forehead.

"Yes, my love?"

"You have problems." I stated blankly. His thin lips stretched into a tired smile.

"I am aware of that." he said, reaching to touch my face. I glared at him with a strange feeling of content amusement. "Kiss me." he said, pulling me a little closer. I rolled my eyes.

"That's a disgusting cliché, beyond even you." I replied. Erik laughed wholeheartedly then, the mirth obvious in his face. His vaguely glowing eyes were flashing with amusement and he pulled me closer as he laughed, resting his forehead on my shoulder.

"So you won't kiss me then?" he asked disappointedly.

I narrowed my eyes and grabbed his face in my hands. The skin felt uneven and rough, but damn it I didn't care. He looked slightly amazed, his mouth slightly open.

I kissed him.

He didn't respond at first. But after a moment his arms were around my waist and he pulled me closer to him, a smile on his face.

Something I realised a little bit too late: I kind of enjoyed kissing Erik. Kind of a lot.

At that realisation I blushed and pulled away, hurriedly escaping his embrace and sitting at the edge of the bed, my hands in my lap.

I heard him laugh again.

It was strange, the way his face contorted when he laughed. His eyes all but disappeared as he clenched them shut and his mouth stretched into a smile that looked almost like a grimace. He was ugly as ever, yet the slightest bit more appealing because he was happy.

Confusion sank in my stomach.

"Don't worry, my dearest Christine," he said, turning me by the shoulder and smirking. "I'm not going to tell anyone. Now come back here."

Erik wrenched me into his lap. I pouted and crossed my arms. His expression sobered a little. "I love you. I am sorry for everything."

"It wasn't you." I said simply. He made a sound that seemed to signify disapproval. "It wasn't." I pressed quietly.

"No, but these hands are the ones stained with blood." he said, ashamed. I turned to face him and he adjusted his position, reclining against the pillows. "My hands are the ones that have killed almost sixty people over the last three years."

My jaw dropped.

"I can only apologise." he said, holding my hand and placing a kiss on it. After that he groaned; it was obviously unrestrained and painful, not a purposeful one. I continued the conversation nevertheless.

"You killed them." I said. He nodded and leaned his head back. "You're crazy, Erik Specteur."

He took a deep breath, and for that moment, life was good, I loved Erik, he loved me, and I knew everything was going to be okay as long as I remembered that. There was a smile on his face as he coughed and took another – and his final – breath then smiled at me: "My darling wife, I love you too."

He was smiling as he fell into death.

**xxxx**

Something else that I learnt quite quickly: sometimes death is abrupt, you don't expect it; there isn't a foreboding speech filled with tears. It just happens that one moment a person is alive and the next he isn't.

I didn't cry. I expected that I would cry, and kiss his dead lips, and beg him to come back to me, and be my husband because I was his wife and it was his Goddamn job to be there and love me.

But I didn't.

For one thing it was futile and for another I just didn't love him in that way.

Shadow stayed by his side for hours, crying and expressing her grief in the way only animals can. When she emerged I went back in, I looked at him, I smiled. "I love you, Erik Specteur," I said quietly, my smile broadening.

Then, as calmly as I had ever done anything in my life, I went downstairs and I called Meg's number.

"'_Allo?_" Mrs Giry's accent had never been so endearing.

"It's Christine." I said calmly, because that was all the clarification that was needed.

"_Mon Dieu!_" I heard her continue such curses under her breath. I chuckled. "_What is it, my dear? Has _he_ hurt you? Have you escaped?_"

"He's dead." I said simply.

The line went dead a second later.

**xxxx**

Mrs Giry and Rasheed, Erik's best friend, organised a funeral for him. I didn't think he would have appreciated it. Worst of all things, it was an open casket.

There was a mask on his face.

Rasheed was a nice person though I couldn't for the life of me imagine how he got to be friends with Erik, for that exact reason. He was calm, placid, level-headed, a lovely man. If anything he was proof of the phrase "opposites attract", and he was painfully supportive through the whole funeral at which one of Erik's not-so-dark compositions was played.

But that was the thing – it was all very contrived. I forced myself to cry, forced myself to look like I was so terribly _upset_ that my husband was dead and he left me a young widow, all alone in the world with nothing and nobody to help me. But that wasn't what I felt at all.

I had lost Raoul.

I had then, consequently, lost Erik.

I was sad, but damn it, I was going to move on anyway.

And so I have.

**xxxx**

As I sit here and write, it's been six months since the day Erik died. I don't know what compelled me to start writing my narrative of what's happened recently. Frankly it's probably my madness. I'm looking at myself as Miss Havisham now. Of course, I lost _two_ men. I deserve some kind of prize. Don't you think?

I mean, look at me. I'm asking a piece of paper questions. That's got to be counted as some kind of crazy. I don't know what to say now that I've written it all down. I don't think anyone would be interested in hearing about another crazy masked guy. They _could_ just watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

I don't know. Maybe I wanted to write this because I felt like I owed Erik something. We had less than a day of happiness together. Now . . . well now, he's simply gone. I don't think it's fair, what he did to me, but it's never fair. Life isn't like that and I no longer expect it to be.

I live in the warehouse and next semester I'm going to redo the third year of my Music Theatre degree, and hopefully I'll finish it this time. Everyone always told me I had talent and promise. Maybe I'll be a singer or an actress or both.

The thing is, I just don't know where my life is headed, and that's more beautiful than having it planned by the guy I'm with. Life is going to happen the way it does, and I'm going to let it.

I guess you could say I'm happy again.

**xxxx**

**Well, wow. Um . . . I guess that's it.**

**First things first: I am going to post a prologue, it'll be quite a few chapters long, and tell all of Specteur's story. I'm thinking I'll call it "The Killer's Origins" because that's . . . eurgh, I dunno, good. I like it at least. The first chapter will be posted very soon, just as soon as I write it. So y'know, either put me on Author Alerts or look out for it. **

**Now we get to the long-winded part where I thank the lovely reviewers. Here goes. Thank you endlessly to: (including anonymous reviewers) MoonlightDutchess, green-eyed-owl, vanillaninja2032, Ivory Wolf, StrawberryStoleYourCookie, The Mad Hatter's Mistress, Rainbow-Says-Rawr, Epic Insanity, MetalMyersJason, lekass, EmmanuelleG, update, gravity01, , MoonlitRendezvouz, Auditory Eden, Kchan88, TheBlackSister, Sassey of the Immortal Night, Quill of Thoughts, Tina95, Breeness, RainbowTurkeyofDoom, Just wondering, Auragrace, Lothiel, Daae-Phantom-Love, JudgePhansexy, somegirl, broadwaygirl818, MadameAnimeLover18,  
Aztilen-chan, blackeyes, E.N.B, Enna17654 . . . I think that's it.**

**Holy crap, I love you all.**

**And I have another dark-ish fic planned. This next Erik will only resemble Specteur insofar as he will be scary and formidable. And he will have no weird French last name. But first I have to finish a few of the other fics I'm writing. And I recommend them to you . . . ;D**

**Well I think that's all I can think to say, other than please do keep reading and reviewing.**

**Au revoir, mes amis.**


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